


Your Secret is Mine to Keep

by LustOnMyFingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Amazon Position, Angst, Blackmail, Bondage, Boss/Employee Relationship, CFNM, Cuddling, Cunnilingus, Discipline, Dom/sub, Domination, Dubious Consent, Edging, Embarrassment, Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Domination, Femdom, Forced Masturbation, Forced Nudity, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, JOI - Freeform, Jerk off Instruction, NEW TAGS FOR PART TWO!:, Orgasm Denial, Punishment, Romance, Sex, Smut, Snowballing, Spanking, Submission, Voyeurism, cum swapping, do you know how fucking hard it was to keep this project from you?, new song inspo: Puscifer - Rev 22:20, read the fine print later!, reverse missionary, ruined orgasm, song inspo: lovage—book of the month, tie jon up 2k20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:01:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LustOnMyFingers/pseuds/LustOnMyFingers
Summary: Shocked to find his boss had been replaced when arriving to work Monday morning, Jon Snow quickly finds himself infatuated with hisnewboss, Daenerys Targaryen, who might as well have walked straight out of his fantasy and into the office. So caught up in trying to impress her, he makes a grave misstep which she soon discovers and uses to her advantage. (Loosely based on the filmSecretary).
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 129
Kudos: 279





	1. I'm the Boss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheScarletGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expertly setting the mood with another tantalizing board is the one and only [aliciutza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza).
> 
> Getting us hot and bothered with expertly crafted spank bank material (in the end notes) is artist extraordinare, [Dragon and Direwolf](https://dragonanddirewolf.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Story dreamed up in collaboration with the two lovely ladies mentioned above, for our beautiful Italian wife, [TheScarletGarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden) (without whom I'd be so lost). Happy birthday, love. ♥
> 
> Trigger warning: Features sexual harassment in the workplace and dubious consent. Please proceed with caution.
> 
> General warnings: Features allusions to Daenerys/Daario and Jon/Val. Also, "xdragon" is not real, so please do not go there 😅

* * *

The office was abuzz when Jon walked in on Monday morning. His colleagues were up and away from their seats, forming small circles to trade hushed gossip. Already, his mind began fearing several worst-case scenarios on the short walk to his cubicle—like the company going bankrupt over the weekend or landing in hot water following some PR disaster. After setting his laptop on his desk, he headed into the break room to drop his lunch in the refrigerator, hoping he might glean some clue as to what was going on.

Once inside, he couldn't help eavesdropping.

"He's been here for almost a _decade_ ," Pypar complained. "I just can't believe it."

"Well, believe it," Grenn added. "Whatever he did, I hear it was his third offense."

Jon wandered over, his curiosity urging him to butt into their conversation. "Who?" he asked, "What happened?"

"Lannister got canned," Theon said.

"What? _Why?_ " Jon felt little else but shock at the news.

Pyp and Grenn shrugged together. "No one knows," Grenn finally answered. "They're keeping it real hush-hush."

"Word is they've already replaced him," Theon added. "Some chick from HR, I heard."

"That was fast," Jon said. He could scarcely imagine how empty the office would feel without the man's larger-than-life personality.

As the chatter in the main office quieted, so did the conversation between Jon and his friends—the silence revealing a rhythmic clack of high heels approaching from the hallway.

The group of men turned toward the room's picture window as she passed—a petite blonde woman in a tight black skirt suit.

" _Whoa_ , check it out," he heard Grenn say.

As the window afforded only a short glimpse, Jon found himself drawn to the doorway, from which he stole another, longer peek of her.

A tight silver-blonde ponytail swung like a pendulum at her waist. Hugging the curves of her hips, his eyes traveled past the modest tailored jacket—which did very little to conceal her hourglass shape. His gaze swept further, over her tight pencil skirt and black seamed nylons down to knee-high leather boots as they stopped in front of Tyrion Lannister's office, just a few doors down from where he stood.

_Damn_ , Jon thought, letting go of the breath he'd been holding. Intently, he studied her—a briefcase in her left hand as the right slid into her jacket pocket to retrieve a key. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

Grenn, just behind him, let out a low whistle. "She's pretty hot, man," he commented.

Jon turned, catching sight of Theon's shrug.

"You can't tell us you don't think so," Pyp said.

"Oh, she was definitely _hot_ ," he agreed, walking toward the sink to lean against it. "She just oozes that high-maintenance energy."

Jon asked, "What?"

"Did you see that ponytail?" Theon asked, pointing toward his own head. "Shit's _got_ to give her a headache all day long."

"And those boots?" Grenn added.

"She's burning the pain candle at both ends," Pyp laughed.

Grenn nudged him. "I bet she doesn't even take 'em off in bed."

"Yeah," Theon began to laugh, "You'd be riding her and she'd stick you with her heels like spurs." He leaned against the counter, spreading his legs and kicking at the air in demonstration as the others chuckled along with him.

Jon scowled, though he was unsure if it was because his friends were idiots, or because he'd already found himself wondering whether or not she wore those boots to bed, too.

"Awful quiet, Jon," Pyp commented. "Nothing to say?"

"Guess I hadn't put too much thought into it, Pyp," he lied, already feeling the heat pool in his cheeks.

Grenn laughed, "He's afraid she'll take him over her knee and spank 'im."

"Afraid? _Nah_ ," Theon said. "Look at him blushing. He'd probably let her saddle him up and ride him around the office."

When the group broke out into a round of laughter at his expense, Jon rolled his eyes and walked straight out of the break room.

To his surprise, his new boss was standing just outside her office, pulling the door shut with a brow quirked in amusement. Jon froze as a pit opened in his stomach, afraid it meant she'd overheard what had been said about her and he wanted no association with it.

The click of her heels echoed again throughout the hallway as she made her way toward him, hips swinging with every step, hands swaying at her sides. Jon pressed himself against the wall to allow her to pass. Unearthly violet eyes locked on his, her gaze effectively holding him captive until it swept down his body, almost in appraisal.

_Get over yourself_ , he mentally chided his ego.

His eyes fell, again, upon her boots as she walked away—conceding that though the blonde was far, _far_ out of his league... it didn't hurt to look.

Once she rounded the corner, he turned around, stopping just shy of her office door. The blinds inside were cracked enough to see that, already, the big wooden desk inside Tyrion's old office had been replaced with a sleek black one, with a room full of modern furniture to match it. Only then did it hit Jon. Tyrion really _was_ gone.

He took another few steps toward her door and ran a careful finger over the new, embossed silver nameplate:

Daenerys Targaryen

Chief Administrative Officer

. . .

The parking lot was empty when Jon parked for work on Thursday morning. All week, he'd taken to filling the coffee machine with fresh grounds the night before so that when he walked into the break room first thing, all he needed to do was flip the switch.

As the first pot of coffee brewed, Jon kept his eyes peeled on the mounted television, half-engaged in the morning news broadcast as he waited.

"-joining us for the discussion this morning is attorney and human resources specialist Layna Waters."

It was then he'd heard it—the distinct clack of stilettos in the distance. His heart began to race.

"-different types of sexual harassment in the workplace. Most pervasive, perhaps, is quid pro quo-"

The television lulled in the background as he tuned out, instead, shifting his focus on the picture window. He held his breath as she passed by, her silver-blonde ponytail swinging in sync with every step.

Though brief, that small glimpse was enough incentive for Jon to set his alarm a half-hour earlier than usual—waking and heading into the office early each day. By _choice_.

It had been a while since he'd felt it, but Jon recognized the feeling—he'd had a proper _crush_ on his boss. Laying eyes on her for the first time each morning felt like some small victory, on which he could coast for the rest of the day.

Once she opened her door and stepped into her office, Jon headed in the other direction, straight for his desk—upon which a neat stack of papers sat. After grabbing them, he walked back toward the break room, this time passing it in favor of the copy room—which so happened to sit directly across from Miss Targaryen's office.

As the copier sifted through the stack of papers, Jon stood around, trying his best to look nonchalant as he stole peeks of his boss through her open door—spying as she stood beside her desk, sorting an armful of manila folders.

For several days now, it had been like a little game for him. After stuffing himself into tight dress slacks each morning and rifling through his files in a desperate search for anything that needed copying, he'd stand outside her office like bait, waiting to reel in her gaze. Sometimes, when he caught her looking in his direction, he even convinced himself his tactics had worked.

Likewise, he would feast his eyes—and he studied her _relentlessly._ Miss Targaryen possessed a classic sort of beauty, like an ancient Valyrian statue come to life. Most striking were her eyes—two amethyst gems, flawless in clarity. Her hair and skin were pale as marble, always contrasted with a raven-black ensemble, worn tight as a second skin. Further adding to her sense of rigidity were her blood-red lips and the way she pulled her long hair tightly back into a ponytail, never a hair out of place.

_Gods_.

Her skirt was shorter today, he noticed. And while the length of her skirt varied from day to day, the length of her heel seldom had—and it was her leather boots his eyes were always drawn to first. The simple click of her stiletto heels in the hallway had him conditioned, drooling like one of Pavlov's dogs in anticipation.

As his eyes hung on her boots, one began to tap. Jon felt the heat bloom in his cheeks before even meeting her eyes to determine that she _had_ , in fact, caught him staring.

Jon ran his hand awkwardly through his hair, his brow furrowing in embarrassment as he grabbed the now-cold ream of paper from the copier's bin, still feeling her eyes burning into him.

By the time he had spun back around, Miss Targaryen was standing in her doorway, arms folded, looking ever-so-slightly amused as he rushed straight passed her.

"Mister Snow, isn't it?"

He stopped in his tracks, his racing heart leaving him suddenly lightheaded as he turned.

"Could you get me a cup of coffee with sugar?"

Before he could even respond, she disappeared back into her office.

Jon stood there, dumbfounded for just a moment before snapping into action. Marching back into the break room, he dropped the stack of copies beside the coffee machine. Upon opening the cupboard, he scanned the mugs carefully, picking out a bright red one to match her lips.

He poured a small spoonful of sugar in before filling the mug with coffee and giving it a thorough stir. Careful not to spill a drop, he walked back to her office.

When he stepped inside, Miss Targaryen was seated at her desk, absently playing with what he guessed was a blue silk necktie as she stared out into the city from her large picture window.

Quietly, he approached her desk, finding an empty spot upon it to set down her coffee—realizing only then that what he thought was a plain red mug actually read, _'I'm the Boss'_.

Unable to help cringing at himself, Jon stood there awkwardly for a moment, waiting for some form of recognition that never came. He considered trying harder to get her attention, ultimately deciding to just leave the mug and walk away quietly instead.

"Please take a seat, Mister Snow," she finally said.

His heart picked up in pace again as he sat reluctantly across from her.

Untangling the blue tie from her hand, she folded it upon her desk, finally looking him in the eye before commenting, "You seem like a nice young man."

He smirked, doubting he was any younger than she. "Thank you," he conceded nonetheless.

"Can you keep a secret, Mister Snow?"

An uncomfortable heat crept up his neck and darkened his flush, as his mind had already taken her simple question and run wild—spinning it into the start of some scenario only plausible for the likes of a kink site such as xdragon.

"Mister Snow?" she repeated.

"Yes," he quickly rasped before clearing his throat. "I can."

"Good," she stated, swiping a hand across her desk and sending the blue tie straight into a nearby trash bin. "From what I've seen so far, your attendance is immaculate. Almost _too_ immaculate."

Jon's thoughts immediately went to his new morning routine—using that extra time not only to make it into the office earlier, but to fuss over his hair and clothes, hoping to find the correct combination to strike her fancy. Sitting across from her, now, made it all feel especially absurd.

"Not many employees would arrive so early or stay so late by choice," she commented.

"I know."

"Are there problems at home?" Her eyes flitted to his left hand briefly. "With a girlfriend or boyfriend, perhaps?"

"I, um," he cleared his throat again. "I don't have a girlfriend."

She nodded, straightening her posture. Her eyes dropped to his neck as he loosened his tie. 

"I suppose I was just eager to make a good impression," he explained.

"Well, you've succeeded," she said. "Your work ethic is likewise impeccable."

Though the comment brought a humble smile to his face, Miss Targaryen remained unfazed.

He frowned. "I sense there's a 'but' coming."

" _But_ ," she repeated, now with a hint of a smirk, folding her hands atop her desk. "Your image is a visual representation of this business. I'm afraid that the way you dress is highly inappropriate."

His face burned with embarrassment. " _Inappropriate_?" he asked in disbelief. Every day he wore black dress shoes and slacks, paired with a button-down shirt, always chosen from a small range of inoffensive, subdued colors.

"Your pants must be two sizes too small," she clarified, holding his gaze for an awkward moment until finally, she blinked. "It's very distracting."

_For who_? he wondered briefly, feeling awkward as he brushed a lock of curls behind his ears just for something to do with his hands.

Miss Targaryen inhaled deeply, almost exasperated as she surveyed him. "And since we're on the subject of _distractions_... your hair is too long."

Immediately, his stomach sank. His hair was like a security blanket for him. He couldn't imagine parting with it, especially not for the express purpose of sitting in a cubicle all day.

"Hair, for male employees, should not cover or extend beyond the ear or shirt collar," she reminded him, her voice robotic as she recited the rule from memory.

Jon gave a half-hearted nod, though had already devised a plan to just wear it tied up, instead.

"Next week, I will be conducting employee reviews. Aside from my superiors, you are the _only_ one I've cautioned. Do you understand, Mister Snow?"

He meekly nodded, realizing that the upcoming reviews were the secret she'd intended he keep. The only person he might've warned was Sam, who, frankly, didn't need warning anyway.

"Please, call me Jon," he said, hoping the bid for familiarity might help his case when, next week, judgment time came and he still had a wild and unruly head of black curls.

Miss Targaryen gulped as she held his gaze, grabbing a red pen from her desk with her right hand and opening a folder with her left.

"Get back to work, Jon."

. . .

At the end of the workday, Jon went into the break room to set the coffee machine for the following morning. In the sink sat the red mug, almost mocking him with its declaration, ' _I'm the Boss_ '. Carefully, he wiped away all traces of dark red lipstick from the rim before cleaning and drying it by hand and setting it back in the cupboard, already hoping she'd ask the same menial task of him tomorrow.

When he got into his car that evening, his mind began to wander, the same as it did in the quiet lulls between tasks at work. Sometimes he wondered about little things—like what sort of fragrance she wore, if any, though he'd bet money it was something heady and expensive. Other times, his thoughts were more lewd—wondering whether those black-seamed stockings went all the way up to her waist or if they were held up by garters...

Before he could ponder the possibilities any further, he found himself parked in the back of the local shopping mall, right outside one of its department stores. At first he felt disoriented, unsure how or why he had arrived there. At least, until he remembered a fleeting thought from earlier in the day— _new dress pants_.

Inside, he browsed through the racks, grabbing two pairs—one and two sizes above the usual in an attempt to disprove Miss Targaryen's theory that he sized down. After trying on the first pair, he studied his reflection. He was positively swimming in fabric, even just one size up. _Ugh_.

After squeezing back into his own pants, Jon left behind the larger size and took the smaller pair with him back to the rack where he'd found it, grabbing a week's worth of slacks one size too large.

Just as he walked up to the cashier, he spotted it—a barbershop just across from the department store's entryway inside the mall. He looked down at the clothing hanging over his arm then at the young girl beside the register, who flushed upon realizing she'd been caught gaping at him. Specifically, his pants.

Jon smirked, suddenly struck with a revelation.

"Sorry," he said, flopping the unwanted garments on the counter in front of her. "I just realized I don't need these after all."

The cashier glared as he walked away, out of the department store and straight into the barbershop.

Luckily, there was an open barber chair inside. Wordlessly, he was waved into the seat, where he promptly described what he wanted—something office appropriate, short enough that his ears weren't covered, but not too short that he'd lose his signature curls altogether.

To dull his reluctance, Jon clenched his eyes shut as the man worked, the weight of his hair lessening with every snip. And, as had always happened when he closed his eyes, his mind began to paint the exquisite image of Daenerys Targaryen—standing just beyond her office door, those violet eyes of hers rolling down his body when she thought he didn't notice. She could have his hair, he decided. It was his pants that gave him leverage.

When the barber was finished, he rubbed his hands with cream and ran them through Jon's hair as he finessed it. To his surprise, he was actually delighted with the result, and gave a hefty tip in thanks.

On the way back to his car, Jon passed again through the department store, the cashier lifting a brow as he walked by a second time.

"Nice hair," she called.

He flashed a quick grin, one he held all the way until he reached his car. Once inside, he pulled down the visor and flipped open the mirror, the small lights illuminating and accentuating each curl.

For ages, Jon's long hair had been something he could hide behind if need be. More than ever before, he felt exposed. When he combined that new, vulnerable feeling with the fact he'd cut his hair not for his job, but because _she_ had insisted _—_ it felt almost dirty.

He smoothed a hand through his freshly-shorn hair, his mind spinning another daydream as he stared absently into the distance.

_Her expression was one of shock as he entered her office first thing in the morning._

_"Jon," she breathed. "You've cut your hair."_

_"Miss Targaryen," he greeted. "Thank you for your helpful suggestions, as I'd like to be the best employee that I can be."_

_"It's a start," she commented, visually inspecting him with a long, penetrating gaze. "Though my best employee would heed_ all _of my helpful advice. Every last word."_

_"Yes, Miss Targaryen."_

_"My best employee would never dress so obscenely."_

_"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he repeated, his pulse quickening._

_"My best employee would never dare tempt his superior by violating the dress code."_

_He felt the hot sting of embarrassment pooling in his cheeks._

_"If you'd like to be my best employee, Jon, you had better get to work."_

_"What do you suggest, Miss Targaryen?"_

_"On your resume, you described yourself as proactive," she said, beginning to hike her skirt up._

The delicious image before his eyes vanished as a car honked from somewhere nearby. _Damn it_. Jon glared in the rearview mirror, noticing a car sitting idle behind him, waiting for his spot.

"Get ahold of yourself," he grumbled inside his empty car, shifting it into reverse before backing out. "It's never gonna happen anyway."

. . .

For as daring as he'd felt opting to lose his long hair rather than surrender to ill-fitting pants, virtually no-one noticed Jon's haircut—not even his best friend, Sam.

And though he'd come in early, by the time Miss Targaryen came into the office, he had already been at his desk working for at least a half an hour. For as much as he wanted to flaunt his mild insolence in donning another pair of tight dress pants, he instead sat obediently at his desk, typing away. After all, his incessant use of the copy machine and scanner, as well as his constant daydreaming, had actually cut into his daily progress.

At the end of the day, Jon watched his co-workers escape the office one-by-one until he was the only one left at his cubicle. Like the others, he should've been excited at the prospect of the weekend ahead, but he found himself, instead, dreading the time away from his desk. Away from the office. Away from _her_.

As he was finishing up, a tall man came bursting through the doors—a full beard and hair so long it fell over his ears. Startled, Jon stood, though just as he opened his mouth to offer his help, the man pushed past him and straight down the hallway, past the break room—and straight into Miss Targaryen's office.

Curiosity got the better of him, and Jon soon found himself sneaking down the hallway, at least in part to make sure she was okay since the guy looked not only intimidating, but rather upset.

He inched right up to the edge of her office, hidden from view but easily able to eavesdrop on the conversation inside.

"-my tie?"

"In the dumpster by now, I imagine, if you care to go looking for it," Jon heard her reply. "I'm sorry for what happened between us. But it can no longer continue."

"I make you happy," he pleaded. "You know I do."

Miss Targaryen said nothing, letting a cold silence stretch between them, so cold it made even Jon shiver.

"Thank you, Daario," she finally said. "But that will be all. Now get out of my office."

Again, silence.

"Get _out_ ," she ordered.

"I pity your staff," he said upon reaching the doorway. "They have no idea what's coming for them."

The man came careening into the hallway, eyes going wide when he spotted Jon lingering there just outside her door. "Of _course_ ," he stopped long enough to sneer before continuing on his way, shaking his head.

A few moments later, Jon heard a door slam in the distance, and only then did he peel himself from the wall and start toward Miss Targaryen's office.

He loitered just outside the doorway, surprised to see her squatting on the floor next to a box full of file folders. Only when his eyes had their fill of her bottom in that tight skirt had he noticed boxes upon boxes stacked all around her office.

Suddenly, she turned her head, her silver ponytail whipping at the air. "Jon," she greeted. "You're here late."

What he wanted to do was ask what in the seven hells had happened with that guy just now, but instead, he muttered, "I-I just thought I'd see if you needed help with anything before I leave."

Using the edge of her desk for support, she rose to her feet and turned to face him. "Great timing," she flatly said, running a hand over her skirt to smooth the fabric. "I could use a thorough drill down."

"Um," he stuttered. " _What_?"

Miss Targaryen folded her arms, letting her eyes roam first over his hair as if in inspection, before traveling lower and assessing his slacks. She smirked.

"Data drilling," she clarified.

" _Oh_ ," he exhaled.

"It appears your former boss neglected proper protocol on, well, all of this paperwork," she gestured to the boxes cluttering her office.

"Wow. I had no idea," Jon breathed, supposing the sheer level of neglect must be responsible for Tyrion's dismissal. "I'd be happy to help you."

"It's very dull work," she warned. "You'd be bored to death."

Jon held firm. "I like dull work. I want to be bored."

Her eyes narrowed. "If you'd like to assist me, you could take a couple boxes home with you this weekend. I need all of this data analyzed so I can absorb it as quickly as possible."

"Hmm," he briefly considered. While the extra hours would be nice, he had hoped they might work _together_.

"However much or little you'd like to work is up to you," she urged. "Just keep track of your hours and I'll approve the overtime. No need to let it interfere with any dates... or other plans."

"I don't have any particular plans," he explained. "I just thought it might be easier to work here, at the office?"

"That won't be necessary," she said, studying his expression as it surely fell. "You can be managed remotely."

"I can?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "Your progress can be easily discussed over a simple phone call."

"Do you need my number?" he asked, perhaps a bit too eager to give it.

"I've already got it."

"How?"

She grinned, a small smile at first but soon she was absolutely beaming. It was the first time he'd seen her smile. His chest tightened, as if he could feel his infatuation with her physically expanding inside of him.

"I'm your boss," she needlessly reminded him. "I have access to a wealth of information about you."

Perhaps it was her smile that dampened what should've sounded like a threat, but Jon found himself, instead, intrigued.

Miss Targaryen backed away from him and squatted, again, in front of the box on the floor that she'd been rifling through. Slowly, she dragged the top over it, pressing it down to make sure it was secure. Jon watched the muscles in her legs flex, her leather boots bulging at the calves as she rose to her feet and walked it over to him.

Despite her petite frame, she seemed to tower in what he guessed was at least a four-inch heel. He grabbed hold of the box as she pushed it toward him, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Though he was a grown man in his late twenties, his body reacted as if he were ten years younger, his racing heart pumping blood to all the wrong places.

Using the box, Jon hunched in an attempt to cover the growing bulge in his pants as she bent to retrieve another. He couldn't help but stare, noticing that her skirt was so tight, that as she bent over, he could see the seam of her stocking through the fabric. When she squatted again, he focused on her thighs, catching a brief glimpse of a garter and effectively quenching his curiosity regarding what she wore under that skirt—only to replace it with immediate concern with what she might be wearing underneath that garter belt.

When she stood again, she nodded toward the doorway. "I'll help you to the elevator."

The pair walked through the hallways until they'd reached the exit. She pushed the down button, the elevator chiming as it made its way up to their floor.

Jon stepped inside as the doors opened, Daenerys just behind him as he turned. Carefully, she stacked the second box on top of the first.

"Have you got it?" she asked, the scent of her perfume permeating the air around them—heady, just as he'd suspected.

"Yes," he said, his voice unfortunately wobbly, though it had nothing to do with the weight in his arms.

"Enjoy your weekend, Jon."

"You too, Miss Targaryen."

Once more, she flashed that killer smile, making him instantly weak in the knees, half-afraid they might buckle under the weight of the boxes in his arms.

"Great haircut, by the way," she added, the elevator doors inching closer until they severed her image from his eyes altogether, though the sweet scent of her fragrance—notes of incense, vanilla, and spice—still lingered.

. . .

Most of the weekend passed in a blur.

Aside from a quick dinner, Jon toiled away all Friday night, meticulously poring over each folder inside the first box and entering every last detail into the system remotely. Since the task kept him up until about two in the morning, he slept in on Saturday, only to wake and immediately set to work again, even skipping breakfast in the endeavor.

Somewhere between lunch and dinner, he ordered YiTish noodles and had them delivered, taking a short break away from his laptop to eat, _sure_ , but mostly to let it cool off and to give his tired eyes a break. The only time he bothered setting foot outside was to walk his dog Ghost, and even then, much to the husky's chagrin, he kept their trips short.

In only a few more hours, he had finished entering all data from the second box and had begun producing analyses for Daenerys, even though they probably were of little help without the rest of the data from the other boxes still stacked around her office.

Sunday afternoon, Jon woke to the buzz of his phone on the coffee table. Apparently, he'd fallen asleep on the couch.

After rubbing his eyes, he reached for his phone. Though he had hoped it might be Daenerys finally checking in on his progress, he wasn’t surprised to see it was actually Sam who had messaged.

_You alright? No one's heard a peep from you for over twenty-four hours < _

_ > I'm fine, just putting in some overtime _

_Overtime? Since when is that an option? < _

_ > Right place right time, I guess _

_Let me guess, for Daenerys? < _

_ > _😏

_Kiss-ass < _

_I wish_ , Jon smirked. Though he hadn't divulged his crush to Sam, it was painfully obvious regardless. Just as he began to type a retort, an incoming call had his phone buzzing again, the ID populating the caller's name—Tyrion Lannister.

Jon immediately swiped to answer, putting the phone to his ear.

"Tyrion?"

"Miss Targaryen," a female voice quickly corrected.

"Oh, I thought-" he mumbled, "Well, the caller ID said-"

"Nice to know this number was recycled, though," she sighed.

Jon bit his lip, entirely unprepared for the call and unsure what to say.

"How is your work coming along, Jon?"

"It isn't."

There was a brief lull before she inquired further. "It isn't?" Her tone had suddenly darkened. "You haven't done any work?"

"Oh no," he quickly replied. "It isn't coming along anymore because it's already finished."

"Wow," she exhaled. "How long did it take you?"

"I- I don't know," he answered honestly.

"You haven't kept track of your hours?"

"No, Miss Targaryen," he frowned.

As the silence stretched on, he could actually _feel_ her disappointment trickling through it.

"Do you know what I'd like you to do, Jon?"

"No," he softly said, though he knew full well what _he'd_ like to do. "What would you like me to do?"

"I'd like you to enjoy your night," she said, though her suggestion sounded more like a command. "Such hard work must be balanced with... relief."

Something in the breathy quality of her voice made his blood stir, and when he spoke again, it came out as little more than a whisper, "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"Good," she said. "And sleep in tomorrow. Come in at your leisure."

"What about evaluations?"

"Between you and me, Jon, you haven't got anything to worry about. That is, assuming you don't find a way to screw up before we meet tomorrow," she chuckled.

"Right," he replied. "Not a very tall order, is it?"

"No," she agreed. "Have a good night, Jon."

"I will," he said, already feeling himself slip away into daydreams about her. Several seconds passed before he added, "You too," but the silence that followed indicated that Daenerys had already disconnected the call.

_I'm a mess_ , he thought, squinting down at his phone to see the half-typed text message to Sam:

No better time to kiss ass than before evalu

_Damn_ , he thought, quickly backspacing until the entire message was deleted. Had Daenerys not called him, he might've disclosed the very secret she'd sworn him to.

Every time he remembered that day in her office, he imagined different outcomes. He closed his eyes, picturing her with perfect clarity, sitting across from him behind her desk.

_"I suppose I was just eager to make a good impression."_

_"Well, you've succeeded. Your work ethic is likewise impeccable."_

_"Thank you, Miss Targaryen."_

_Her violet gaze swept over him, snagging as it ran over his chest and biceps. In response, he flexed._

_"You possess many impressive attributes, Jon," she said, biting her bottom lip. "I'd like to examine them in greater detail."_

_His heart raced as Daenerys moved out from behind her desk to stand in front of him for a closer look._

_"Unbutton your shirt."_

He opened his eyes, sighing as the fantasy fell away.

Surely, she recognized the juvenile crush he had on her. He imagined most of her male employees had suffered the same affliction, like the one he'd caught storming out of her office. It only took one look at her for Jon to determine Daenerys Targaryen was out of his league. He could daydream all he liked, he knew it was never going to happen. 

Maybe it was because the call sounded, to _him_ at least, more like a conversation with a phone sex operator and less like a conversation with his boss—or, maybe because masturbating at home probably wasn't what she had meant when she told him to have a _good night—_ but Jon decided to use the time to attempt a one night stand.

After all, as the saying went—the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

Jon unlocked his phone, searching the app store for Tinder. As it downloaded, he walked to his bathroom to check his reflection. _Good enough_ , he mused, running his fingers through his hair, wondering whether the closely-cropped cut would help or hinder his chances.

After snapping a quick selfie, he tapped his screen, hoping to drum up _something_ to put in his profile, until suddenly, it hit him:

_Looking for someone to drown my sorrows with as I mourn the recent loss of my long hair in a devastating collision with scissors._

Was it corny? Sure. But that's unfortunately what he had to offer. Jon let out a sigh as he began to browse the app.

Tyene, 34. _Short dark hair and a bangin' body_ , he thought. _A great smile too_. Admittedly, he felt a little bit intimidated by the party-girl persona as conveyed by her photos—at least until he scanned her bio:

_You want a good girl, but bad pussy is what you need._

_Perfect_ , he thought, swiping right. _And almost as corny as me_. Just as he began to check out the next profile, Tyene messaged him.

_how tall are you? < _

_ >5'8" _

_no short kings for me, sry < _

He furrowed his brow in disappointment. " _Ouch_ ," he said, though the sting of her snap judgment was fleeting as the next candidate had popped up on his screen.

Doreah, 31. _Cute_ , he thought. A natural beauty, too. But then he read her bio:

_If you can't handle me at my worst, then you don't deserve me at my best._

" _Oof_. Red flag," he said and swiped left.

The next girl to pop up had a full head of curly golden-blonde hair that had, admittedly, piqued his interest straight away. Beautiful, too, especially her big green eyes. Myrcella, 20. _Maybe too young_ , he thought, though he read her bio anyway.

_I love adventures and long walks on the beach._

_Too young and too sweet_ , he decided—certainly not one-night stand material. He swiped left.

Immediately catching his eye next was an absolutely gorgeous girl with red hair and what appeared to be a perfect pair. Ros, 28.

_Do you believe in love at first swipe?_

_Worth a shot_ , he decided, and swiped right.

When the next image flashed before his eyes, he had to do a double-take. At first glance, the woman had looked almost _exactly_ like Miss Targaryen. The simple mistake was enough to give him that lovesick feeling that festered within him each day at the office.

Val, 29. Slim, hourglass figure. Blonde hair that looked almost silver in the light of the camera's flash, and pale eyes—grey or blue, he guessed, but almost purple with the sepia-toned filter. Her looks alone had Jon swiping right before even bothering to read her bio.

After about five nail-biting minutes, they had matched. Just as Jon began typing a greeting, she messaged first.

_Drinks? < _

He grinned, deciding to keep it just as short and sweet.

_ > Where and when? _

Feeling almost giddy as he awaited her response, he went back to her profile to poke through it—swiping through her photos and finally taking a peek at her bio.

_The one you meet before you meet the one._

. . .

As Jon suspected, Val's hair was darker in person, more of a honey-dipped blonde. She had high, sharp cheekbones and a stern expression which she referred to as her " _resting bitch face_ ", much to Jon's amusement.

Talking to Val had been like talking to one of the guys—she even preferred ale, too, making their trip to the dive bar around the corner a rather frugal one, sharing a couple pitchers of cheap beer as they spoke. She was actually really cool and down-to-earth—easily helping to get his mind off of his boss. At least, she _had_ been helping, until he started thinking about how he wasn't thinking about Daenerys.

"It's getting late," Val commented.

Jon pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, but when he tried to hit the side button, the screen remained black. Dead. Probably from all the swiping.

"Your place or mine?"

The question was enough to get his heart pumping.

"Mine's close," he answered, his nervousness raising the pitch of his voice.

She smiled. "Lead the way."

They walked side by side down the sidewalk, they exchanged glances instead of words—the decades-old rock music still blaring two blocks down from the bar they'd left. As they rode the elevator up to his place, his anxiety began to set in—wishing he at least had his phone to distract him in that awkward, quiet moment as she stared down at her own screen.

Finally, the doors opened and they took the short trip down the hallway to his door. After he unlocked it, Val leaned forward as if expecting a kiss.

"Wait here," Jon said. "Just a moment."

Quickly, he ran inside, darting straight into his bedroom. He plugged his phone into the charger before ushering Ghost inside the room and closing the door behind him.

"Sorry, boy," he whispered. "It probably won't be for long..."

Sprinting back to his front door, Jon swung it open, thankfully finding Val still standing on the other side.

"You weren't hiding evidence of your girlfriend, were you?"

"I was hiding my dog," he explained. "In the bedroom."

She stepped inside, raising an eyebrow. "Won't we need the bed?"

"I have a couch."

" _Classy_."

_Strike one_ , Jon thought, wincing as he closed the door behind her. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. But trust me, it's probably better that he doesn't see you at all."

Val nodded in understanding, setting her purse on his coffee table as her grey eyes slid effortlessly down his body. She stepped toward him, her nose bumping his as she went straight in for a kiss—a few pecks to test the waters first. Jon grasped her neck to pull her closer and get a better taste. Their mouths moved together as he walked them awkwardly backward toward his couch.

He gently massaged her scalp—at least what he could of it with her hair so tightly pulled back. With his eyes closed, all he could picture was Miss Targaryen and her stiff ponytails. Val was even roughly the same height as Daenerys in heels.

There he was—still thinking about his fucking boss as he was about to fuck another woman. What was wrong with him?

Together, they fell onto the couch, Val climbing on top of him, a knee softly brushing against his groin. It felt good, _really_ good, considering how much of the week he'd spent popping uncomfortable erections at work.

_Stop fucking thinking about her_ , he scolded himself, trying hard to focus on the girl currently in his arms. The one he might actually have a snowball's chance in hell with.

Only when Val's hands went wandering did Jon dare to let his roam, too. They went straight to her hips, helping guide her movements. Once she fell into a steady rhythm rubbing against his jeans, he reached further down to get a good squeeze of her ass.

She gasped his name. " _Jon_..."

" _Daenerys_ ," he whispered.

She froze in shock before peeling her body from his.

_Fuck_.

" _What_ did you just call me?"

Jon had soared right past strike two and straight to strike three. He'd never even spoken the damned name aloud, where in _seven hells_ did it come from?

"I- I'm sorry..."

"No," she spat. " _I'm_ sorry. For ever bothering with you in the first place."

Snatching up her purse, she ran straight for his door, turning to glare at him as she swung it open. "I _knew_ you were too hot to be single."

Val slammed the door behind her.

Jon groaned, feeling stung by both embarrassment and rejection. _What an idiot_. Sighing, he stood and dragged himself to his bedroom where he opened the door to let Ghost out.

Together, he and his husky went on a short walk around the block. The entire time, as he stewed in his foul mood, all he could think about was that somehow, he'd disappoint Daenerys by having failed to have a good night as she'd insisted.

As Ghost vigorously sniffed the stop sign at the corner, his mind began dreaming up more ridiculous scenarios against his will as he waited idly by. Again, he pictured himself sitting across from her, this time at his evaluation.

_"Did you enjoy your night, Jon?"_

_"I tried to, but I was too distracted with work."_

_Walking out from behind her desk, she leaned against it just in front of him. Her blonde ponytail swayed as she shook her head in disappointment._

_"What did I tell you about hard work, Jon?"_

_"That it must be balanced with relief."_

_She smirked. "Then relieve yourself."_

_"R-right here? In front of you?"_

_Rather than answer verbally, she nodded her head, her violet eyes dropping down to his too-tight pants, watching intently as he reluctantly unzipped them._

There was a sudden tug on the leash, so strong it nearly made Jon stumble straight into the street.

"Calm down, boy," he ordered, though he knew it was he who needed to calm down as he tried adjusting himself nonchalantly in preparation for their short journey home.

After locking his door and letting Ghost off of his leash, Jon headed straight for the bedroom. At this point, he just wanted to go to sleep. However, his erection had other plans—proving it wasn't going anywhere any time soon unless he'd dealt with it directly.

He undressed and got under his covers before taking his phone from the charger. To his chagrin, when he hit the side button again, the screen remained black. He then tugged the cord, realizing his charger wasn't even plugged into the wall.

" _Ugh_ ," he groaned, sitting up to remedy the issue.

However, it was then he discovered another problem—the cord wasn't long enough to allow for comfortable browsing from bed. He groaned again, feeling frustrated in more ways than one.

Defeated, Jon planted his feet on the floor before wandering naked into the living room as he considered a cold shower instead. It was then that his eyes fell upon his work laptop.

_I couldn't_ , he tried to convince himself—yet there was something so dirty about it, the shame and desperation of it only exciting him further.

Cautiously, Jon lifted the laptop and switched it on before taking a seat in front of it. The startup screen illuminated his naked body briefly before transitioning into the sign-in window. Quickly, he typed in his password and pulled up a browser, enabling private browsing to be safe.

He typed xdragon into the search bar and selected his favorite category—femdom.

Jon scrolled for a minute until he found a title that appealed to him:

_Student's Attempt to Blackmail Hot Teacher Backfires_

_Blackmailing can be kinky_ , he considered, clicking the video. Out of habit, Jon fast-forwarded until he hit what looked like the spot where the story began to unfold.

He expanded the window fullscreen, letting the video play as he settled into the cushion, beginning to slowly stroke himself as he watched the young male student confront his professor with implicating photos of an affair with a different student—threatening her career unless she grant him good grades as well as the same _preferential_ treatment.

Outraged, the professor—fittingly, a petite woman in a skirt suit and a tight bun—bent the student over her desk, holding him down by his neck as she ripped his pants to his knees. Jon's cock throbbed in his hand as he watched, picturing himself getting handled in a similar fashion by a certain superior of his.

The woman spanked the insolent student raw. When she was finished, she flipped him over and climbed on top of him, sitting right on his face. She rode it relentlessly, occasionally turning to swat at his useless, bobbing erection only to make him writhe, his squeals muffled by her cunt.

Imagining himself sprawled across Daenerys' desk as she straddled his head the same way was all the inspiration Jon needed to finish—inelegantly catching his ejaculation in his hand after only a few more strokes.

Now that it was out of his system, he sat there, spent and sweaty, staring down at his work laptop and immediately regretting what he'd done and wondering, _again_ , what the fuck was wrong with him. Once he caught his breath, he shut the laptop with his left hand before walking to the kitchen to scrub them both.

His night might have been an utter mess, but at least he could count on one upside the following morning—aside from the work he'd slaved over all weekend, he had been assured by his boss, herself, that he needn't worry about his employee evaluation tomorrow.

. . .

Jon had ignored Miss Targaryen's advice—going into the office early as usual rather than sleep in. He brought with him both boxes he'd worked on over the weekend, setting them beside her office door as he awaited her arrival from the break room.

He nursed a cup of coffee, staring absentmindedly at the television as it droned on.

"-owners claim it's about tracking productivity, but critics argue that these practices rob employees of their rights to privacy-"

Rather than the expected click of heels, Jon heard a different sort of shuffle from the hallway. Just as he turned, his friend had entered the room, headed straight for the coffee machine.

"Oh," he said between sips from his mug. "Hey, Sam."

Sam was visibly scowling, only nodding in response.

"What's wrong?"

He finished pouring his cup of coffee before turning to Jon. "I ran into Tyrion last night."

"You did?" Jon gasped.

"Found out why he was fired."

"Well _shit_. Tell me, Sam."

Sam leaned in to whisper, "Porn."

Jon nearly spat his drink. " _What_?"

"For watching porn at work."

An immediate sinking feeling washed over Jon as the shame he'd felt Sunday night came flooding back all at once. _Shit_.

"I can't believe it," Sam continued, though his words were dulled by the sudden ringing in Jon's ears. "I mean _really_ , show me a man who doesn't watch porn—at least once in a while—and I'll show you a liar."

Jon nodded along, half-processing Sam's news, instantly comparing it to his own grave mistake with his work laptop the night before.

"Do you know how they found out?" he meekly asked.

"Keystrokes, I think he said. Can you believe that?" Sam rolled his eyes. " _Ten years_ he's been here, Jon," he ranted. "I mean, _I'm_ outraged enough. I can't begin to imagine how _he_ feels."

"Humiliated." Jon knew because he felt it, too. The realization that he hadn't even been with the company for half that time made his stomach twist into knots—if Tyrion had been canned, surely Jon didn't stand a chance. It was only a matter of time.

"Yeah," Sam frowned, blowing on his coffee before he sipped it. "Anyway, how was your night?"

Jon cringed. Before he could even feign some ambiguous answer, the tell-tale sound of stilettos clicking through the hallway distracted him. And just as the noise reached its crescendo, it stopped. Jon turned to see her standing in the doorway, a briefcase in one hand and the other tapping thrice against the door frame.

He gulped. "Miss Targaryen."

"Why don't you come into my office, Jon?"

He nodded, already feeling a cold sweat sprouting all over his skin as he and Sam watched her walk away.

"What's that about?"

Jon only shrugged. Sure, he had two good guesses—his evaluation or his dismissal—but he couldn't say for sure.

Upon exiting the break room, Jon began the short walk to her office. Though only a few doors away, the hallway seemed to stretch on for miles.

Just inside the doorway she stood, arms folded neatly behind her back.

"Have a seat, Jon."

They locked eyes as they passed one another—he, on the way to the chair facing her desk, and she, toward the door to close it after him. It was he who looked away first as she lifted her briefcase and placed it upon her desk before likewise settling into her seat.

She let him stew in silence for only a minute or two, he guessed, though the agony of that moment felt longer than had his entire weekend.

  
"When you were hired, Jon," she began, opening her briefcase and pulling from it a sheet of paper. "You provided your signature in accordance with our company policy of employee monitoring."

Daenerys held up the original paperwork he scarcely remembered signing four or so years prior—his signature there under a giant wall of legalese.

"Since most employees don't actually bother to read the fine print before signing such documents, I'll quickly refresh your memory of what, exactly, employee monitoring entails."

_Keystrokes_ , he wanted to guess, but the sudden lump in his throat prevented him from speaking even if he'd had the courage to.

"Each work device provided to employees can be legally monitored in several ways—from downloaded files, keystrokes, and emails, to browser history," she paused, lifting her violet eyes to meet his as she pushed her briefcase aside.

A weak nod was all Jon could manage, his heart thumping hard as she held his gaze, unflinching. "Including which websites were visited when and for how long-"

His eyes fell closed. _Fuck_.

"-as well as webcam monitoring."

_Gods._

_Oh gods no._

Jon brought a shaking hand up to his forehead. _Wake up,_ he tried to will himself. _It must be a nightmare_.

If he'd had anything to eat that morning, surely it would've come back up and splattered all over her carpet by now. Even so, he could taste the bile as it climbed his throat, every inch of his body feeling the aftershocks of his terrible spur-of-the-moment decision the night before.

"As you might've guessed by now, part of my assessment process per each employee includes scanning individual logs for signs of... inappropriate behavior," she explained.

Jon sat frozen and mortified. This was it. He was about to be fired. A long, silent moment passed between them and only when he met her eyes again did she continue, her hands tightly gripping the armrests of her chair.

"Imagine my shock upon discovering several real-time queries for adult content on your work-issued laptop," she said. "My first assumption was that the computer must've been swiped by a thief—that the quiet, diligent Jon Snow would _never_ use company property to indulge in illicit material."

If only he were as good as her first impression of him.

"So," she continued, "In an attempt to identify the culprit—I checked the webcam."

_Fuck_.

_Fuck_.

_Fuck._

By now, his dress shirt was nearly soaked through with a sweat so cold he shivered, despite the blazing heat in his cheeks. His face must've been beet red. And, as if to add insult to injury, Jon felt his cock start to stiffen at the thought of her watching him through the webcam late at night, invading his privacy at his most vulnerable moment. _You're about to get fired, dipshit_ , he reminded himself before his thoughts could wade any further into such forbidden and absurd delusions.

"Because your behavior has been near-perfect thus far, I decided to keep my findings confidential."

Wait— _what_? Jon's eyes shot to hers, in clear disbelief.

"Though, I am afraid my kindness comes at something of a cost."

"A cost?" he croaked, for the lump in his throat hadn't budged an inch. "I- I don't have much money-"

"Money is not the only means to buy someone's silence, Jon," she explained. "Besides, as your superior, I have little need for your money."

"Then what?"

"Well," she began, pressing her nails so deeply into the leather he feared she might puncture it, "Upon reviewing the material browsed via your _work-issued_ laptop," she paused for emphasis, "I believe that we can easily come to some sort of..." she stopped for another pause, this time to quirk a brow, " _Arrangement_."

His head swirled and his heart hammered so hard he feared it might pound right through his chest. Though the thought was ludicrous, he knew, it sounded almost like she was propositioning him. _It can't be that_ , he reminded himself as Daenerys straightened her spine—back rigid, legs crossed underneath her desk. Finally, she retracted her claws from the armrests to fold her hands, instead, upon her desk.

"What do you say, Jon?"

He furrowed his brow. "I- I don't understand-"

"There's nothing to understand," she stated, raising a hand to wave it dismissively. "Just answer simply. Would you like to keep your job?"

"Yes," he murmured, his mouth bone-dry.

"Then you will do as I say."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

When Jon shifted in his seat, her eyes dropped to his lap.

"The consequence of wearing such tight pants, Jon," she said after a moment, her tongue flitting at the inner edge of her bottom lip, "Is that it's very hard to conceal one's arousal."

He looked down to see his cock straining against the fabric, in almost frightening detail, as if his slacks were merely dark cling wrap stretched over it.

"Do you know what I'd like you to do, Jon?"

She'd asked the question in exactly the same ambiguous tone as she had during their phone call.

"No," he whispered—not on purpose, but because it was the only volume he was capable of producing. "What would you like me to do?"

"I'd like you to unzip your pants."

_Holy shit._

"N-now?" he stuttered, still in a state of shock.

"Right now."

Jon took a few deep breaths before gathering the courage to pull down his zipper.

"The button too."

He complied with a nod, popping the front of his pants open.

"I'd like you to pleasure yourself in front of me, Jon. Just as you did last night."

His face burned red with humiliation as he reluctantly pulled his cock out, unsure, exactly, what kind of show she had expected out of him. Did this turn her on? Or was it some sort of twisted punishment?

"Good," she said breathlessly. "Now begin."

With a shaking hand, he began to stroke himself—awkwardly, as if he hadn't done it thousands of times before.

"Don't be shy, Jon."

He clenched his eyes shut in an attempt to concentrate. "Imagine you're alone," she urged. "Or, if it helps, just imagine that I'm your laptop."

The comment plucked equally at his shame as well as his sense of humor, and Jon let out a sputtering, nervous chortle as a result. Somehow, the roast seemed to alleviate some of the tension, even loosening his muscles a little bit.

Despite feeling certain now that this was all some sick ruse, Jon continued tugging his now painfully distended, throbbing cock—all for her amusement. Though, when he opened his eyes, he saw no trace of humor on her face as she watched him. Her eyes were positively peeled on his erection, hungry as a starved animal, her red lips wet as if she'd licked them recently. He found the sight so startling, he paused.

"I didn't tell you to stop."

Jon nodded, giving his length another few long strokes, until again, she critiqued him.

"Not like that. Do it the way you did it last night."

"I don't remember how I-"

"Lightly twisting your hand," she said, the breathy quality of her voice almost exaggerated as she craned her neck for a better look. "Closer to the head."

Immediately, he knew just the technique she'd meant—he also knew that if he implemented it, especially under her... _supervision_ , it wouldn't be long before he came. In fact, he could scarcely remember his balls ever feeling any tighter than they had in that moment, sitting there right in front of her—it was a miracle his little show for her hadn't already reached its climax.

"That's good, Jon. Just like that," she instructed, this time licking her lips in plain view.

_Gods_.

Jon felt his heart nearly burst when a sudden knock sounded at her door.

_Shit_. His hands trembled as he tried to quickly stuff himself back inside his slacks.

_Shit, shit, shit_.

Daenerys thankfully waited until he was decent before rising from her seat, smoothing her hands over her skirt and walking to the door to open it.

Jon recognized the man on the other side of it immediately as _her_ supervisor, Jorah, Chief Operations Officer and son of the company Chairman, Jeor Mormont.

Once he spotted Jon sitting red-faced across from her desk, he frowned. "Have I interrupted something?"

"Not at all, Ser. I'm conducting employee evaluations this morning," she smoothly explained.

"Don't go too hard on the boy, Daenerys," he warned, still looking troubled by Jon's flushed appearance.

She forced a polite chuckle. "If you'd kindly give us a moment to... finish up?"

"Of course," he smiled.

They waited in silence until Mister Mormont's fading footsteps indicated he was out of earshot.

"You will report back to my office at five o'clock sharp. We will finish your evaluation after hours."

Jon nodded, rising to his wobbling feet. Daenerys stepped toward him, reaching out to grasp his necktie and giving it an urgent tug, effectively forcing him to look into her stern yet half-lidded eyes.

"Now straighten yourself up and get back to work," she breathed.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"And don't forget to wash your hands."

As he left her office and began his walk of shame, he couldn't help but look back—spotting her through the window, twisting open the blinds.

When he turned back around, he nearly jumped when Jorah Mormont stepped out of the break room, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Did Miss Targaryen say or do something to upset you, Jon?"

"Oh, no. Not at all," he shook his head. "She was tactful and professional as always," he lied, slipping a finger inside his collar to loosen his necktie. "I just don't handle criticism well."

"All right," Jorah conceded. "Carry on, then, Jon."

"Thanks, Mister Mormont."

Once out of the man's clutches, he walked in a slow daze toward the bathroom, desperate to splash water on his burning-hot face. Alone and finally shielded behind a closed door, Jon took a quiet moment to reflect. Droplets nearly sizzled as they streamed down his scarlet cheeks—his reflection as red as her lips.

_What the fuck just happened?_

Inside, a storm of conflicting emotions brewed—humiliation and exhilaration, shame and arousal, dread and anticipation. He'd never felt anything quite like it—certain it was the closest he'd ever come to true euphoria.

And already, he knew there was no way he could return to his cubicle in such a sorry state, he could barely remember his name, let alone concentrate on work.

Jon stopped himself as he reached for the faucet, realizing his hands were still trembling. He was in need of some composure, of some... _balance_ , he thought to himself, smiling as he backed away from the sink.

He had every intention of obeying her last command—but there was no use in washing his hands just yet. Jon locked himself inside of the largest stall and took a seat. He opened the front of his pants the same way he'd done in Miss Targaryen's office, except this time, he didn't need to fantasize, for she had seemingly plucked the obscene scenario straight out of his head.

After only a moment or two of _hard work_ , Jon had finally found the very thing he'd sought all weekend.

_Relief_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two coming soon! Assuming Miss Scarlet gives me permission to finish...
> 
> Art created by the incredibly talented [Dragon and Direwolf](https://dragonanddirewolf.tumblr.com/), who cranks out the steamiest Jonerys fanart at frightening speeds, give her a follow on Tumblr!
> 
> Also, if you liked this fic, I strongly suggest you check out [Find Your Passion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22120537/chapters/52797766) and [Job Perks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21260570) by one of my favorite writers in the fandom, [DracoIgnis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis), sure to add a little color to your cheeks...
> 
> Lastly, yes. I am working on my multi-chapters. However, when one of your favorite bitches has a birthday, you gotta step up. Thanks for stopping by!! ♥


	2. Yes, Miss Targaryen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Targaryen finally capitalizes on the exploitative arrangement made with eager employee Jon Snow after catching him in a compromising position. When things start to heat up, their officemates begin drawing different conclusions on what might be behind their secretive behavior. Feelings stir and power dynamics shift until the repercussions of their unconventional liaison finally spill over into their real lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What took so long? Having a libido (or mental stability) in 2020 America is fucking hard.
> 
> Thank you, [Scarlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheScarletGarden/), my endlessly patient wife. One might even say that your patience, uh, _deserves a reward_. So here it is! ♥ Hope you enjoy this porn that I lovingly wrote for you. 😂
> 
> Note: Yes, this is a long one, folks. It probably should've been three chapters, but I didn't want my verbosity to result in yet more work for my collaborators, [aliciutza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza) and [Dragon_and_Direwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf), who were so kind to lend their talents again for part II, with two stunning pieces, even having met a deadline that I, myself, could not. Endless thanks to my beautiful and talented wives. ♥
> 
> Oh, and I updated the tags for part two. There might be a few things there that make some people uncomfortable.

* * *

All morning, Jon mindlessly typed away at his desk. He was happy there was no true employee evaluation coming, for if anyone had asked him to describe a single task he'd completed since leaving Daenerys Targaryen's office that morning, he wouldn't be able to recount a single one. Every moment since blurred into the next. And as the hours passed, his paranoia about it only grew, half-certain that anyone who dared even to look at him _must_ know something.

"All right," Sam said, tossing a familiar brown paper bag onto Jon's desk before pulling up an empty chair and taking a seat. "Something's up."

"No," Jon snapped automatically, nearly jumping out of his skin in fright. He minimized his browser, even though all he'd been doing was actual work. "What? No, of course not."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "You've been brooding so hard today I'm afraid your face might actually freeze that way."

"No, I haven't. And anyway, I don't _brood_."

It was then Jon felt it—the pout on his lips, his brow furrowed to such an uncomfortable degree that he had to physically massage the muscles in his forehead back to normal.

"All right," he conceded. "Maybe a little bit."

"Actually, you've been weird since this morning," Sam accused. "Was it your evaluation? Miss Targaryen seemed pretty pissed when she came in."

Jon shook his head. "What? _No_. The evaluation went..." he paused to clear his throat, " _Well_."

"I imagine so. Between the haircut and the overtime, it's almost like you knew it was coming."

"Nope," Jon quickly lied. "Just your average, run-of-the-mill kiss-ass, like you said."

"Speaking of your haircut," Sam added, " _Never_ thought I'd see the day."

Jon grinned. "Me either."

After enduring his friend's gaze for what felt like a few seconds too long, Jon felt his brow furrow again.

"Right. You never answered me."

"Answered what?"

"What you're brooding for."

Jon sighed. He knew he had to give Sam something, and it _couldn't_ be the truth. Or anything remotely resembling the truth, for that matter.

"I had a date over the weekend," he confessed.

" _Ooh_. Was she hot?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "Pretty hot, actually."

"What color hair?"

"Blonde."

No matter how Jon had ever answered that question in particular, Sam's reaction was always the same—to grin like an idiot. And, being the pervert he was, his friend gestured toward his chest as he readied his next question. "And her... _um_...?"

Jon rolled his eyes and laughed. "I don't remember, honestly. She wore layers."

"So you didn't...?"

"No, Sam. We didn't," he confessed. "Almost... But I fucked it up."

"What, couldn't figure out where to put it?" Sam teased, nudging his arm.

Jon only rolled his eyes. Finally grabbing his paper lunch bag from where Sam had tossed it, he reached inside, dodging his sandwich and grabbing the yogurt instead—afraid of consuming anything that might upset his stomach as his excitement and anxiety mingled.

His co-worker sighed. "I guess I'd be brooding too."

Somewhere in the hallway behind them came a familiar click. Every muscle in Jon's body tightened at once, his face resuming the same grieved expression he'd worn since the morning. While Sam indulged his eyes, Jon tried his best to avert his gaze as she passed, yet he couldn't help but stare. Unavoidably, he noticed that her head hadn't turned an inch—the small slight tugging at the already hollow feeling in his stomach.

When she was finally out of sight, Jon exhaled, realizing only then he'd been holding his breath at all. He then looked over at Sam, startled to find his friend already intently staring back.

"Keep dreaming, Jon," he quietly said. " _That_ ?" He nodded to the spot where Daenerys had disappeared from sight. "That is _never_ gonna happen."

. . .

The half-hour between four-thirty and five was, quite possibly, the longest stretch of time Jon had ever endured. He'd work for what felt like ten minutes—only to glance at the clock and confirm that only _two_ had passed.

Daenerys had returned a couple of hours after lunch to resume one-on-one employee evaluations and hadn't left her office since.

At a quarter-to-five, he got up to stretch his legs, nonchalantly wandering halfway down the hallway to see that though she'd drawn the blinds, a light shone on the tile just outside her open door. She was inside.

For the next ten minutes, Jon tried to ward off his nervousness by drifting between his co-worker's desks until they began to filter out of the office a few minutes early, as usual.

Jon fished his phone out of his pocket for a more precise time—four fifty-seven. He'd been successful holding his anticipation at bay thus far, but at three minutes to spare, all of it came rushing in at once. His breathing and his heart rate both became worryingly erratic. Sweat gathered underneath his arms and in his palms.

Afraid of arriving too late, Jon started a slow trek down the hallway at one minute and thirty seconds to. Already, his muscles felt fatigued as if he'd run there from the parking lot outside—hot under his skin and trembling.

When he got to her doorway, he didn't knock. He simply walked in.

Daenerys didn't even look up from her desk as he entered, remaining intently focused on her work as he clicked the door shut and quietly walked to the seat across from her desk.

The room was quiet, unnervingly so. Jon could hear his every uneven breath loud and clear. He pressed his lips together, using the silence to focus on his breathing and hopefully calm down.

When what must've been several minutes had passed, and Daenerys _still_ hadn't looked up—he considered interrupting her, or maybe clearing his throat. But fear had gripped him and held him still, sitting stiffly in that leather chair without so much as moving a single muscle. Jon kept his gaze focused on her hands as she worked, almost afraid to catch her eye.

_She said five o'clock sharp, hadn't she?_

The longer she kept him waiting without acknowledgment, the busier his thoughts became—like a radio stuck between two stations. One voice insisted she was tormenting him on purpose, and the other tried to convince him that what took place on that very chair that morning had been nothing more than a fantasy. He didn't know which to believe.

"Jon," she finally greeted. "You're here early."

_Hardly_ , he thought, certain several minutes must have passed by now—though, what he said was, "A little." 

Still too skittish to meet her eyes, he instead focused on her mouth, watching a slight upturn form at the corner of her lips.

"Do you always come early?" she asked.

He couldn't help his own smirk as he raked his overtaxed brain for a likewise suggestive retort.

"That's up to you."

Daenerys pressed her lips together in an attempt to wipe the amusement from her face.

It worked.

Expressionless, she scooped up her stack of paperwork, striking it against the desk a few times to gather them into an orderly pile before placing them in her briefcase and pushing it aside. Jon intently watched her hands as she folded them neatly upon her desk.

When she said nothing, he reluctantly met her gaze—which drifted from his eyes to his lips, from his lips to his neck, his neck down the length of his body. He shivered.

While Jon was no stranger to women checking him out—there was something different in the way Daenerys looked at him, like he was a game just waiting to be played and she knew all the winning moves.

"Should I... continue where I left off this morning?" he blurted.

"That won't be necessary."

He nodded, feeling both dumb and dumbfounded.

"This is your employee evaluation, Jon," she began, "I intend to evaluate you."

Though he couldn't be sure exactly what that entailed, his already-hard cock twitched in anticipation. And judging by the way her eyes stared straight into his lap, Jon guessed the involuntary reaction wasn't lost on Daenerys.

"Why don't we begin with your work attire?"

_Not this again_.

"I'd like you to remove it."

"...oh." He blinked.

Her gaze flitted between his eyes and his dress shirt.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

Requiring no further explanation, Jon scooted forward and loosened his necktie before pulling apart the knot and laying it over his knee. Next, he began unbuttoning—slowly, because it was the only speed at which his trembling fingers could move. Once he pulled the sleeves from his arms, her gaze went straight to his bare biceps and she held a hand out to collect both items.

"Your undershirt."

Jon gave a quick, earnest nod before rising to his feet and tugging the fabric from the waistband of his pants. He dragged the top up and over his body before finding her gaze again, liberally roaming his bare skin as she held out her hand a second time to collect his clothing.

"Your pants," she ordered.

Praying to the gods his feet didn't smell after a full workday, Jon slipped out of his dress shoes, flattening his feet on the carpet. By now, his heart had been pounding so hard his ears were ringing. Still, his hands shook as he unzipped his pants before unbuttoning them and slowly dragging them down past his knees. There wasn't a lick of elegance in the way he hobbled first on one foot and then the other as he pulled his legs from either pant leg. Though, he strongly doubted that a confident striptease was what Daenerys was after.

When finished, he relinquished the slacks to his expectant boss, who had amassed a small pile of clothing atop her desk. Awkwardly, he stood there in just his black boxer-briefs and dress socks, stretched midway over his calves.

He braced himself for the order to undress further, but it never came. Instead, Daenerys visually inspected him from the bottom up, her eyes catching on his underwear, where his erection surely protruded obscenely, though he didn't dare look down to check.

"Turn," she ordered, and though it was just one word, her tone had audibly darkened.

He obeyed.

Somewhere behind him, he heard Daenerys shuffle. From the sound of it, he guessed she was rifling through his clothing—for what reason though, he hadn't a clue. For several agonizing moments, he stood there, still somehow sweating despite the chill of the air against his mostly-naked skin. With all of his senses on high alert, he could feel the prickle of her unseen gaze behind him. He shifted on either foot, flexing his muscles as discreetly as possible, hoping she liked what she saw.

There came another shuffle shortly thereafter, though this time it was her chair that he'd heard, followed by the soft padding of her boots across the carpet as she approached him. All of his muscles tightened at once, unsure what to expect.

"You've put a great deal of work into your body," she commented, standing just beside him.

He kept his gaze forward, his throat too constricted to even attempt a reply.

"May I touch you, Jon?"

Though he nodded, she made no move until he gave his verbal consent.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he rasped.

Though she had received permission, her hands remained locked behind her back as she encircled him—perhaps asking the question only to further rouse him.

After she made a couple of agonizing circuits around his motionless body, she came to a stop just in front of him, her red lips parting to give her next order.

"Kneel."

One syllable was all it took to bring him to his knees. His head spun as she stalked slow circles around him, making a vain attempt to calculate the most likely scenario to unfold.

She stopped just inches in front of him. His mouth watered at the sight of her thick thighs in that tight skirt, the bump of her garters poking up under the fabric. Just as he began to imagine the many ways he'd use his mouth on her if only she'd let him, she slipped her fingertips into his hair, gently massaging his scalp until his eyes fell closed.

He quickly lost himself in the sensation as she continued stepping around his body, fingers raking through his short curls. After another moment, her boots brushed against his ankles as she planted herself just behind him.

When she lightly tugged the hair around his ears, he realized that she was evaluating him, just as she'd promised. His haircut, specifically.

"While it's an improvement," she commented, "Your hair already hangs over your ears."

Her hands swept softly over his shoulders before gripping his neck with one hand.

"Maybe it's vanity that keeps you from following dress code," she suggested, as four gentle fingertips traveled upward, tilting his chin to face her.

Jon opened his eyes, immediately captivated by her austere, upside-down glare above him.

"Or maybe you want to be punished."

Providing an answer on his behalf, his cock gave an involuntary jerk.

Daenerys let go of his neck before backing away from him.

"Turn around," she ordered.

Using his hands, Jon repositioned himself to face her, making sure he stayed obediently planted on his knees before her.

Daenerys lowered herself into the leather guest chair. Again, his mouth watered as he watched her tug the dark fabric of her pencil skirt up and over her knees, catching only a brief glimpse of her stocking's band before she crossed her legs and closed them.

_Damn_.

"Come closer."

Between them, he spanned the distance on his hands and knees, stopping just short of her boots. Mere inches away now, they naturally caught his eyes just as they did every time they clicked through the hallway.

"You stare at my boots often, Jon."

Feeling a blush settle in his cheeks as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't be, all he could do was agree. "Yes, Miss Targaryen. I do."

"While you're down there, why not take a closer look?"

She lifted a boot so that it was level with his face. It was then he realized the bottoms were as red as her lips. The leather was in such pristine condition, he couldn't spot a single scratch or scuff. It took every last bit of his willpower not to touch them, for fear he couldn't stop there.

"So clean you could eat off of them. Wouldn't you agree, Jon?"

_Amongst other things_ , he thought, certain he'd polish them with his tongue had she willed it. Though, what he said was, "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"You could stand to learn a thing or two from me, Jon."

Daenerys uncrossed her legs, allowing for another brief glimpse up her skirt before she leaned forward, grabbing his chin between her thumb and index finger.

"You have one more chance to follow dress code before I take disciplinary action," she said, examining his eyes as she held his jaw. "Do you understand, Jon?"

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he murmured. Though, so long as his tight pants kept catching her eye, he had no intention of changing them—almost welcoming punishment as a result.

Finally, she let go of his face before sinking again into the leather chair. 

"Now you will continue where we left off this morning."

"R-right here?"

Daenerys smirked, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs before him. "I've got a great view," she shrugged. "And since you've been patiently waiting all day, I might even allow you to finish."

Jon froze, his expression surely dropping just as his stomach had. His brow furrowed with guilt as he grappled with how, exactly, to confess what he'd done.

"Is something wrong, Jon?"

He nodded. "I haven't been patient," he quietly admitted, unable to help hanging his head. "After I left your office, I- I went into the bathroom to... relieve myself."

For a moment or two, she said nothing. And so, Jon sat on the floor in awkward silence as he waited. Suddenly hyper-aware of his near-nakedness, he couldn't help but wonder how pathetic he must've looked on his knees before her. When he finally worked up the nerve to meet her eyes, he noticed that her gaze had narrowed, that her nostrils flared in irritation.

"Your honesty is appreciated, Jon. However, from here on out, if you wish to relieve yourself to completion, you will ask my permission first," she stated, her strict tone doing little to dissuade his arousal. "Do you understand?"

He swallowed. "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"Good," she said. "Now take your cock out so I can see it."

His heart thumped as he nodded, tugging his boxer-briefs down a couple of inches. Heat burned so hot in Jon's cheeks that beads of sweat formed all along his neck. He took a clammy palm and smoothed it over his stomach, dipping just below his waistband. With his erection pulsating in his hand, he fished it from the fabric and lifted it over the elastic. Firmly, he held the base of his cock so that it stood straight and rigid, as if in presentation.

Daenerys inhaled sharply—a hiss between clenched teeth. She uncrossed her legs to press them together.

"Loosen your grip," she ordered. "Stroke yourself lightly with your fist."

Intently, she watched as his cock slid over the ridges of his fingers, heavy in his grip. Her own fists clenched and unclenched in her lap. Just as Jon fell into a steady rhythm, imagining what _her_ grip might feel like instead... she barked another command.

"Let go."

Caught off guard, he wavered briefly. He placed his quivering hands on top of his thighs as he caught his breath.

"The next time I tell you to stop, you will comply at once. Do you understand, Jon?"

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"Continue."

After re-adjusting, he took his cock in his hand a second time and began to stroke it for her.

"Faster."

Judging by the rise and fall of her chest, her breathing seemed to increase along with his as he submitted to each command.

"Twist your hand."

She had ordered him to masturbate using the same method he would've used in the privacy of his own home—knowing full well how long it took him to get off, since she had already watched it over the webcam. As she squirmed in front of him, he couldn't help wondering whether she had joined him that night...

_Don't think it._

Cruelly, she let him tug at himself until he began to shake, trying with all his might not to blow his load right there all over her boots.

He clenched his eyes shut.

_Stop fucking thinking it._

Jon let out a shuddering exhale. He sucked in another quick breath and held it captive in his lungs. All he could do to keep from coming was sink his teeth into his bottom lip so hard he nearly drew blood—hoping the pain would supersede all pleasure.

"Open your eyes, Jon," she commanded. And when he obeyed, he was awarded the sight of parted legs—dark banded stockings taut around two thick thighs.

_Gods_.

"Let go."

Jon lurched forward with a grunt, pressing a pair of fingers against the base of his cock, balls full and tight and aching. There was no winning for him, and she knew it. Daenerys had guided him straight to the edge. Teetering there, he had to make a split-second decision—disappoint her by coming too soon, or disappoint her by refusing her order. 

Though it took a couple of seconds too long, he finally obeyed and let go of his cock.

Daenerys closed her legs, crossing them at the ankles and tapping her foot.

"You aren't very good at following instructions, Jon."

She kept her gaze peeled on him as he stewed in that pitiful state—trembling and flushed, just like his cock as it peeked out from the top of his waistband. Though his knees ached in pain, he didn't dare move.

"We're going to try again."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he agreed.

"This time, you're not going to stroke yourself. You're going to make a fist and fuck it."

Jon raised his eyebrows, feeling suddenly apprehensive about a command so much more... _performative_. With a pointed gaze, Daenerys watched as he worked through his reluctance—lifting a shaky hand to fish his cock out again and wrap his fingers tightly around its base.

Timidly, he began to buck his hips, quickly realizing one trembling fist wasn't quite steady enough. Luckily, Daenerys waited patiently as he figured out how best to perform the task, her violet eyes filled with fascination.

After locking his wrist in place with his left hand, Jon began to penetrate an upside-down fist, the top of his cock sliding smoothly against his palm, his thumb, and fingertips brushing the underside. Perhaps because this wasn't his usual method, it was easier for him to contain himself as he thrust into his hand—or maybe it was because of how silly it made him feel.

By now, the symptoms of his embarrassment were static as she studied him—skin hot and slick with sweat though he shivered, muscles fatigued from constant shaking. Expertly, she had crafted an emotional cocktail of shame and lust, inebriating him until he felt ill.

Though, the torment shifted to gratification as he caught sight of her eyes—fervently roaming his body as his muscles flexed with every jut. She loosened her necktie, even popping open the top button of her dress shirt. He kept watch of her as he thrust obediently into both hands, making sure to work every muscle he could—his arms, his stomach, even his legs—all for her amusement.

"That's very good, Jon," she purred, tugging her skirt up another couple of inches in reward.

Just when he'd been doing so well, concentrating on her pleasure rather than his own, she had revealed her winning hand—a pair of v-shaped garters and the answer to a very important question that plagued him...

Just what was under that belt.

Black floral lace so sheer he could make out a closely-trimmed silver tuft just above the crease of her hairless vulva—the fabric dark and wet with her arousal.

_Oh shit._

The sight alone was enough to tighten his balls, and before he knew it, he was back to fending off his orgasm as if his life depended on it—since, for all he knew, it _did_.

He tried to exhale, but it came out as a grunt instead. And soon enough, he couldn't stop the pitiful noises that fell from his mouth one after the other.

"Don't stop," she ordered, yet gave no permission in her command.

All muscles went rigid as he tried to stop the inevitable, but already, he could feel the orgasm creeping its way up. Again, he felt pulled in two directions at once, wondering which decision might yield a harsher punishment—defying her last order or coming without her consent.

"Let go."

Jon wavered again, managing to remove his left hand, but he kept his cock locked tightly in his right.

It was too late.

It was coming up whether or not he liked it.

"Let _go_ ," she barked again.

Instead, he tried to block it by pressing his fingers into the base of his cock, but his attempt was thwarted when she lifted a boot to literally kick his hand away.

Jon shuddered as he fell backward onto his palms, grunting and panting like an animal as his stiff cock bobbed, pulsing several streams of semen straight into the air.

Though his balls had emptied—the release brought very little relief, or pleasure for that matter.

Utterly exhausted, he collapsed onto the carpet entirely, catching his breath. Jon straightened himself out, enduring the prickling sensation of pins and needles all over his legs as his knees cried in relief.

The clouds in his mind scattered, revealing a familiar post-orgasm clarity—one full of shame and abashment. He tucked himself, still semi-hard, back into his boxer-briefs. Reluctantly, Jon peeled his gaze from the ceiling, peering over his semen-streaked body to meet an inscrutable violet gaze.

His boss simply waited, expressionless, as he lifted himself up into a sitting position. He took visual stock of his immediate vicinity, noting streaks and droplets not just on his torso and legs, but on the carpet, the leather chair, and even... her boots.

"You've made quite a mess, haven't you, Jon?"

The way her eyes bore into him told him that she had expected acknowledgment. _Verbal_ acknowledgment.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he quietly agreed, the shame of what he'd done tightly laced through each word as they passed his lips.

"Come here, Jon."

Jon hooked his nails into the carpet and dragged his tired body so close to Daenerys he could feel the heat of her leg as she lifted it, laying her ankle across the other knee.

The instant his gaze flitted to the hollow space between her open thighs, she snatched his face in her right hand. She gave his cheeks a firm squeeze, shaking her head in disappointment.

"Haven't you been naughty enough?"

Her fingernails dug into his skin as he nodded in agreement. Daenerys physically directed his eyes away from her skirt and straight toward the white glob that had streaked its way down her leather boot.

"This mess could've been avoided had you followed my instruction."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"You will clean up your mess," she ordered, finally letting go of his face to settle back into her chair.

Daenerys let him stew in a thick silence, letting his mind reel as it grappled with how, exactly, she had intended he carry out the command. As his tongue sat heavy in his mouth, he feared he'd found the answer. Just as he mustered the resolve to lean forward and polish her boots with his mouth... she pulled a tissue from the small side table beside the chair.

_...Oh_.

Jon flushed further, thanking all the gods he hadn't just made an ass of himself. Well, a _bigger_ ass of himself, that is.

He could feel her eyes boring into him as he carefully wiped the leather down, buffing it until there was no visible trace left of his misbehavior and lack of self-control.

When he was finished, he looked up at Daenerys, reverent and patiently awaiting her next command. To his surprise, her expression softened when she met his eyes. And again, she slipped her fingers into his hair, gently stroking his scalp. Like a loyal pet, he leaned into the tender touch.

Too soon, her hand fell away and she rose to her feet, gracefully maneuvering around him as she walked to her desk and gathered her things. Jon turned his body to face her, though remained planted on the floor. It was then he noticed his clothes, in a neatly-folded stack upon her desk.

"When you finish cleaning your mess," she spoke, "You will get dressed."

"Are you leaving?"

Her jaw quivered as she gave a quick, simple nod.

"Lock the door on your way out."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he said reflexively, though in his heart he wanted nothing more than to beg her to stay with him.

Coldly, she stepped out of the office, locking him inside alone.

The click of her heels as she walked down the hall and away from him had been, admittedly, less enticing than its approach.

Jon pulled several more tissues, using them to wipe away his _mess_ before pulling himself up onto his feet. He hobbled not to her desk for his clothes, but to the window.

After a moment or two, he spotted Daenerys below, confidently walking to her car—an understated black BMW, its lights flashing as it unlocked. When she got to the door, she took one last look up at her office window. A quick double-take hinted she had spotted him lingering there at the window's edge, watching her.

She didn't wave.

Instead, she opened the door and got inside, throwing the car quickly into reverse before speeding out of his field of vision altogether.

Just as his heart lurched in longing, his phone buzzed from her desk.

Quickly, Jon rushed over on his still-shaking legs, retrieving it from his pocket. When he saw an email notification, he swiped to unlock his phone—heart racing as soon as he saw her name. He couldn't open the damned message fast enough.

_Jon,_

_Your performance today was exemplary. Keep up the good work._

_Best,_

_Daenerys Targaryen_

_Chief Administrative Officer_

Jon let out a sigh, pressing the phone to his bare chest.

Once he had finally composed himself, he quickly dressed. Though chances were good that he was the last one in the office aside from the cleaning staff, Jon paid careful attention to every last detail so that his wardrobe looked _exactly_ as it had prior to having removed it. Just in case.

After turning off the lights, he locked the door's handle before pulling it shut behind him. It was then Jon noticed someone at the far end of the hallway, back facing him.

"Mister Mormont," he squeaked in surprise, though the man took it as a greeting as he stopped and spun around to face him.

"Jon," he greeted in turn.

And for some reason, Jon broke into a sprint until he'd caught up with him. "You're here late," he commented.

"I could say the same for you, Jon."

Jorah was wearing a long coat and carrying his briefcase, hinting that he was headed to the elevator, same as Jon. They walked together, standing in awkward silence until the elevator chimed its arrival, opening the doors as they stepped inside.

"Was that Miss Targaryen's office you were leaving?"

"Um," he hesitated. " _Aye_ , it was."

"What were you doing in her office, if you don't mind my asking?"

Though he tried to sound unaffected, Jon could hear the suspicion in his tone.

"Oh, just some data entry. Tyrion apparently left behind a mountain of unfinished work, so I offered my help." Jon looked over to see Jorah's eyes had narrowed, and soon he found himself blabbing further. "The overtime's sure gonna look great on my check."

"I see."

The elevator chimed again, announcing they'd made it to the ground level. Together, they walked through the lobby and into the parking lot, where, aside from those of the cleaning crew, theirs were the only cars left. Jon found himself thanking the gods Daenerys had left a few minutes prior. Hopefully, his sneaking out of her office now looked at least a _little_ less suspicious...

"Enjoy your night, Jon."

"You too, Mister Mormont."

. . .

All throughout the night Jon had tossed and turned. He could barely contain a single thought in his head, merely enduring an onslaught of delicious memories each time he almost drifted off. Every look Daenerys had given him flashed in his mind, instilling him with a fresh wave of shame and longing, impatiently counting down until their next encounter.

And despite barely managing a wink of sleep, Jon drove into the office feeling wired.

It was no surprise that he'd beat her there that morning. But rather than loiter in the break room until she arrived, he waited in his car.

He didn't have to wait long, either—she had pulled up at about twenty-five minutes to nine. Their vehicles were the only two in the parking lot. If she had noticed him sitting in his car, she certainly didn't show any acknowledgment.

Figuring an elevator ride together might be a little bit awkward, Jon waited another moment or two before following her inside. When he got to his desk, he rifled through his paperwork looking for something— _anything_ —that might need copying. After coming up short, he marched to Sam's desk instead, rummaging through his friend's papers until he found a document that would suffice.

Since he had managed to stuff himself inside the tightest pair of dress pants he could find in his closet, the walk to the copy room was an uncomfortable one—the tight fabric rubbing against his erection with every step.

The size of his slacks had become something of a point of contention between him and his boss, and he knew it. Feeling mischievous, the memory of her strict allegation rang in his ears.

_Maybe you want to be punished._

He smirked.

Daenerys was at her desk when Jon arrived in the copy room, her door open as she typed away at her laptop. She had paused and turned her head slightly at the sound of his approach, but never bothered to greet him.

Jon didn't dwell on it. Instead, he bit at his bottom lip nervously as he slipped the document into the feeder, selecting enough copies to justify a couple minutes of dawdling as he bent over the machine, purposely angling his backside toward her office like bait.

As the copier finished, the printer beside it whirred to life, spitting out a lone sheet of paper. Just then, he heard a voice behind him.

"Jon."

After having caught her attention as intended, he fought the urge to grin triumphantly as he turned.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen?"

"Come into my office at once," she ordered. "And bring the sheet from the printer."

The paper was still warm as he carried it with both hands toward her doorway. She stood aside to allow him to pass through, her expression one of muted exasperation.

"Place the document on my desk."

Jon continued past her, stopping to gently place the paper face-up upon her desk as instructed. He turned his head to see she had twisted the blinds closed, darkening the room. Next, she closed the door so that they were alone.

"I want you to bend over the desk so you're looking directly at it. Get your face nice and close, forearms flat against the wood," she explained. "And then you're going to read it aloud."

A sudden flood of embarrassment washed over him as he assumed the compromising position she'd described. She stepped closer, leaning over just beside him, enough to drag a manicured finger down the paper until it stopped on a passage regarding dress code.

"Begin."

He swallowed. "Acceptable clothing for male employees includes suit jackets, dress shirts, sweaters, suit pants, dress slacks, and khakis. Pants should be appropriately fitted, neither too loose or too tight."

"Stop," she commanded. "Highlight the second sentence."

It was then that Jon noticed the conspicuously placed highlighter, just inches from his right hand. He took the top off before pressing it to the paper and dragging it across the words.

"Good. Keep reading."

Again, he swallowed. "Collarless shirts, shirts featuring branding or logos, sweat suits, athletic attire, jeans, shorts, leggings, spandex, and other form-fitting pants are prohibited."

"Highlight 'form-fitting' through the end of the sentence," she instructed.

Jon made a second yellow streak across the paper.

"Very good," she breathed.

Suddenly, her hands were at his waist. Before he could even react, she had unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.

"Now read only the highlighted portions."

As he prepared to read, he felt a rush of cool air against his skin as his pants were tugged down along with his boxer-briefs—just enough to expose his ass to her. His heart began to beat so erratically his eyes struggled to focus on the words.

"Pants should be appropriately fitted, neither too loose or too tight," he read. "Form-fitting pants are pro-"

_Thwack_.

A hard slap fell upon his bare cheek, so hard he nearly lost his footing, palms skidding across her desk.

Jon froze, stunned and violated, both ass and ego stinging. Behind him, he could hear her quick and unsteady breathing. Slowly, he turned his head, his expression surely troubled as he spied her from over his shoulder.

Her red lips quivered. "Continue."

With mild hesitation, Jon turned back around, assuming the instructed position. Nearly panting as both his heart rate and breathing quickened, he finished the sentence with a stutter, "P-prohibited."

"Good," she breathed. " _Again_."

"Pants should be appropriately fitted, neither too loose or too tight," he read. "Form-fitting pants are," he paused, waiting for a slap that didn't come. "Prohibited," he finished.

_Thwack_.

Jon grunted as the force of the slap knocked the tops of his thighs into her desk.

"Keep going."

His tongue flitted over his lips to wet them as he continued, "Pants should be appropriately fitted, neither too loose or too tight. Form-fitting pants are prohibited."

_Thwack_.

He read the sentence twice more, and twice more she swatted him. After another few minutes, he closed his eyes, reciting the words from memory instead. Daenerys switched cheeks until they had both been slapped raw.

"Pants should be..."

_Thwack._

"...appropriately fitted, neither..."

_Thwack. Thwack._

"...too loose or too..."

_Thwack._

"...tight." He shifted his weight on either foot, as if it would somehow alleviate the biting pain. "Form-fitting pants..."

_Thwack. Thwack. Thwack._

"...are..."

_Thwack. Thwack._

"... _p-prohibited_ ," he gasped. Suddenly, a weight fell upon his back, the stiff fabric of her skirt suit chafing his inflamed skin. She slid her fingers over his flattened hand, the tenderness of the simple gesture making his heart flutter.

Daenerys remained pressed against him until she had likewise caught her breath. Slowly, and much too soon, she peeled herself from his body, lips brushing his shoulder in her ascent. Still obediently bent over, Jon watched as she walked around her desk and took a seat, pulling at the plackets of her suit jacket to neaten herself.

"Straighten up," she ordered.

Dragging his arms over the wood, Jon slowly stood—pants falling to his trembling knees, boxer-briefs still pulled down low enough to expose his pubic hair, his erection still technically concealed, yet jutting straight out from his pelvis.

"Turn," she breathed. "Lift your shirt and let me see your bottom."

He lifted the hem of his shirt as he turned, his ass bare and exposed. As he stood there both enduring her scrutiny and awaiting his next command, he wondered for a moment which had been redder—his ass cheeks or the ones on his face. _Or maybe my cock,_ he mused.

"Pull those up and take a seat."

Grimacing, Jon pulled his boxer-briefs over his irritated skin, wishing he'd worn silk underwear instead of cotton to help soothe the burn. Next, he pulled up his pants, leaving them unzipped to avoid the constriction of the tight fabric as he sank into the soft leather chair.

Pushing the air from her lungs with a heavy sigh, Daenerys pulled her laptop to the center of her desk and opened it. The artificial light illuminated her face, turning her eyes a crystalline lilac. As he sat there, she resumed her work with an impassive expression.

_Gods_ , she was beautiful.

And since she was more or less ignoring him, he decided he might as well stare while he could get away with it—always finding direct eye contact with her a bit daunting otherwise.

As if she could read his mind, her gaze floated upward to meet his.

"Do you find the pain distracting, Jon?"

"Very much, Miss Targaryen."

"I'd like you to remember this feeling the next time you consider wearing inappropriate attire to the office."

_Oh, I'll certainly remember it_ , he thought, though what he said was, "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

Her gaze dropped to his lap, where his erection still proudly presented itself.

"Stand up, Jon."

Again, he obeyed her, the discomfort surely clear on his face as Daenerys likewise stood, walking straight over to him.

"Let me help you," she said, her voice almost off-putting in its gentleness.

Gingerly, she helped to tuck his dress shirt into his pants, taking extra care not to agitate his sore backside any further. When she tucked the front of his shirt in, she lightly brushed his cock, making him whimper like a pup at her touch. Jon couldn't be sure whether or not it was intentional.

"No running off to the bathroom to _relieve_ yourself this time, Jon." She dragged his zipper up before buttoning his pants, lightly scolding him further, "Those who exhibit such misbehavior should not be rewarded."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

"As you leave my office, consider why such rules are implemented as you try to hide _this_ ," she said, this time very intentionally tapping the front of his pants and drawing from him a second pitiful whimper.

This time, he only nodded.

Just inches apart, her hands lingered at his waist, almost unwilling to let go of him just yet. To delay the inevitable, she began to manually smooth the wrinkles in his shirt, flattening them with her fingertips. When she parted her lips, Jon braced himself for another lecture that never came. And for just a moment, he thought she might kiss him. Her red mouth quivered mere inches from his lips—a scarlet garden from which he longed to feed.

She exhaled, the mint on her breath cutting through the cloud of her dark, potent perfume.

Her hands finally fell away from him, eyelids lifting as the spell between them dissipated. And when she spoke, her voice was almost too soft for such rigid words.

"Get back to work, Jon."

He gave another wordless nod, reluctant to leave her office as her hands had been to leave him. However, the clock didn't hesitate as it inched closer to nine o'clock, and so, Jon left her and wandered out into the hallway.

With his backside still stinging, curiosity quickly got the better of him. He ducked into the bathroom, using his foot to slide the heavy trashcan in front of the door to block it. Jon took slow steps toward the mirror as he unzipped his pants.

Upon reaching his reflection, Jon turned, pulling both his pants and underwear down to reveal a smooth plane of flushed and inflamed skin, save for a few pale streaks that matched the length of her fingers. For being so petite, she had done a number on him. The sight of it alone made his cock twitch.

Quickly, Jon pulled his pants up and re-tucked his shirt, afraid of what he might be tempted to do if he stayed in the bathroom alone any longer. After washing his hands, Jon splashed his face with cold water. He spent several minutes alone in the copy room staring at nothing at all until his nerves and demeanor returned to normal—or, as normal as was possible given his morning so far. Once he heard voices down the hallway, he finally mustered the will to face not just his co-workers, but a full day of dull work sitting on his sore ass.

Jon headed to the break room for his habitual morning coffee—managing, somehow, to cross paths _again_ with Jorah Mormont on the way there. The man's eyes narrowed as he gave him a quick visual once-over.

"Good morning, Jon."

"Morning, Mister Mormont," he replied, pausing until Jorah was out of sight—something about the brief exchange only amplifying his current discomfort.

Slowly, he made his way inside the break room, the usual gang gathered by the coffee machine, their chatter obscured by the drone of the television. Jon cut his way straight through them, grabbing a mug from the cupboard and pouring himself a cup.

"Anyone know what's up with Mormont lately?" he interrupted.

"What do you mean?" Grenn asked.

"He's always lurking around our floor now," Jon answered, remembering a recent time when Jorah's visits were closer to twice a year than twice a day.

" _Gee_ ," Theon interjected, bringing a hand up to his chin to stroke it in exaggerated fashion. "I sure wonder what reason someone might have to suddenly lurk around Lannister's old office?"

Pyp and Grenn began to chuckle.

"Daenerys, you mean," Jon guessed.

Theon raised his eyebrows at that. " _Daenerys_? Is that what she lets all the boot-lickers call her? Or just the most pathetic ones? Like you."

He flushed. "Fuck off, Greyjoy."

Upon realizing he'd actually managed to get under Jon's skin for once, Theon put on his usual shit-eating grin as he continued, "Holy shit. You're actually blushing," he laughed. "You're even worse than Mormont."

The others chuckled—at least until Jon glared them both into silence.

Grenn cleared his throat. "I heard she fucked him for the promotion."

"Trust me, she _didn't_ ," Jon said matter-of-factly, hopefully nipping any further gossip in the bud.

"Yeah," Pyp laughed. "To his everlasting disappointment."

Before Jon could even realize he'd been smirking, Theon had caught him at it. His eyes narrowed. He took a couple of steps toward Jon, examining his face.

" _Gods_ ," he said with a grimace. "You're like her little lapdog, aren't you?"

Jon rolled his eyes. The only thing Theon's opinions were good for was ruining perfectly good silence.

"Go on then, run down to her office like the loyal little bitch you are," he teased. "Take all the overtime you like, Snow, she's never going to let you fuck her."

Jon took a sip of his coffee as he considered. _Maybe not_ , he thought—but if he was lucky, she might just clip her garters to his shirt collar and let him wear her cunt like a feedbag...

Theon snapped his fingers in front of Jon's eyes as if to snap him back to reality. In fairness, it worked.

"How fitting," he said. "You've got the attention span of a lapdog, too."

"Aye," Jon agreed, taking another swig of his coffee as he walked toward the door. "You'd be impossible to tolerate otherwise."

Not even a moment after he'd taken a seat at his desk, a small hand pushed his shoulder to keep him in place.

"While I've got you," a familiar voice began, "There's a task I need completed before the end of your shift."

Before he could even turn his head to spy her, Daenerys leaned over to place a sheet of paper face-down on his desk, close enough to permeate the air around him with her unforgettable fragrance.

Jon closed his eyes and inhaled.

"I need this retyped and correctly formatted."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he said reflexively.

When he tried to flip the page over, Daenerys pressed her palm against it to stop him. He shifted his attention to her face. She discreetly scanned the room before leaning yet closer, her gaze finally falling upon him.

"Type it _exactly_. Word for word," she ordered. "And report to my office straight after work."

It wasn't until she slipped away and out of sight that he dared to turn the sheet of paper over—noticing four familiar words.

**Employee Dress Code Policy**

A smile spread slowly over his lips as he licked them. And when he adjusted in his seat, he relished the dull pain that lingered in his backside.

His other tasks could wait, he decided.

Grinning, Jon cracked his knuckles and began to type.

. . .

A voice called as he passed by Miss Targaryen's door at five o'clock sharp. He'd been headed for the printer to retrieve the requested document—typed exactly, word for word.

"Jon? Is that you out there?"

Only, it wasn't _her_ voice—it was Jorah Mormont's.

Quickly, he grabbed the sheet from the tray, feeling a sudden apprehension bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

With cautious steps, he approached the door.

"Come inside, Jon," Daenerys said.

Jon stepped into her office, standing awkwardly just inside the door's frame. His eyes flitted between her and Jorah, who had been seated just across from her desk in the guest chair. The sight of it hit him with a wave of irrational jealousy. He had a sudden urge to bark at Jorah to get the hell out of _his_ chair.

"I um," he started, extending his arm to pass her his paper. "Here's the document you requested this morning."

"I'm a little busy right now, Jon," she frowned. "Why don't you hang onto that for now? We'll look it over together sometime tomorrow."

"Sure," he replied, running an awkward hand through his hair.

"That will be all, Jon," she said.

He hesitated. "I can go home, then?"

Jorah's gaze drifted from Jon back to Daenerys. And for the briefest of seconds, her eyes widened almost in horror. She twisted in her chair then, craning her neck to look up at the clock above her head.

"It's after five," she said simply before turning back to him to shrug. "You don't need my permission to come and go, Jon."

_Bullshit_ , he thought, pressing his lips together to hide a smirk. But what he said was, "Of course. See you tomorrow, then."

"Have a good night, Jon," Jorah said, his eyes still narrow.

Daenerys gave nothing further, didn't spare him another glance, didn't share with him another word. Though he knew why, it still stung.

Feeling a bit daft now, and wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of her office, Jon simply nodded toward Jorah. Quietly, he slipped out of the door and made his way to the elevator alone, never once looking back.

. . .

For the rest of the week, their attempts to secure privacy were thwarted—sometimes by meetings that ran too late, but mostly by Jorah Mormont, who had managed to sneak his way into Daenerys' office at five o'clock each day. Jon's resentment for the man sprung up like a bed of unwanted weeds—and it grew and multiplied just as fast.

He'd kept the document stashed away and perfectly preserved—without a crease or dent in sight. Since she'd requested it, he'd pored over the file countless times, making sure he'd typed it exactly. Word for word. Each line was lodged in his brain, by now. Like a child hoping his mother might pin his report card to the fridge, he couldn't wait to present it.

And when Jon had _finally_ found himself in her office again the following week, she didn't spare his immaculate document a single look before promptly whisking it straight across her desk, letting it fall limply into her trash can.

Instead, Jon stood as ordered, legs apart and hands locked together, secured behind his head. She kept him there, standing just like that, for enough time to experience all seven stages of grief about that damned document before he dared to look up from the bin and watch her.

His eyes followed her pen, then, as it scratched swirling cursive letters across her notepad—half-certain that, judging by the speed alone, whatever she was writing wasn't _actually_ important. Not as important as his discarded document, at least. It _couldn't_ be—not to him.

Jon found the sound her pen made positively grating as it dragged over the paper, like nails on a chalkboard. The only other noise was the clock above her head, announcing each new minute with another tick. Nearly half-an-hour had passed as he stood in wait.

Save for his clammy hands, he was starting to feel a chill. He shifted on either foot just for something to do as he waited. After taking a deep breath, he let out an unwitting sigh.

The muscles in her hand turned rigid as she flattened her pen against the desk and lifted her eyes to meet his. Daenerys held an expressionless stare.

Jon was the first to flinch.

"Are you bored, Jon?"

"No, Miss Targaryen."

She scrutinized him then, enough to both sniff out his little white lie and to put him on edge.

"Have a seat, Jon," she ordered.

Feeling compelled to hold her gaze at all costs, Jon took backward steps until his calves hit the seat behind him. He sank into the leather, the metal accents cold against his bare skin.

Daenerys stood, slipping two manicured fingers into the silk of his necktie, which sat atop his neatly-folded pile of clothing on her desk.

She unrolled the tie as she walked toward him, the red silk a perfect match to her lips, just as he'd intended when he chose to wear it that morning.

"Grab the armrests."

In an instant, he gripped them as she'd insisted, his arms dotted in sudden gooseflesh.

Carefully, she stepped closer, planting her boots between his feet and dragging the silk tie slowly over his thigh.

"Spread your legs," she commanded. "Let me see all of you."

Jon flushed, moving one leg after the other until he felt a cool draft over his bare testicles.

"Good."

She used the tie to tickle his freshly exposed skin, causing him to jump in his seat.

"You could use a lesson in patience, Jon."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen," he agreed, despite having just stood naked and motionless in front of her desk for half an hour. _Patiently_.

After draping the tie over his arm, Daenerys began to loosen the small black one around her neck, untying the knot and tugging it from underneath her collar.

"You have many strengths as an employee, I must admit," she began, wrapping the dark silk securely around his wrist like a bandage.

"You're punctual." 

She made a loop, threading the thin end of the tie through it like a needle.

"Trustworthy."

After a few tugs to test the knot, Daenerys had tightly secured Jon's left wrist to the armrest.

"Respectful..."

Her thoughts lingered there, unfinished, as she visually assessed him. The anticipation quickly proved too much to bear. He licked his lips before inquiring, "..but?"

" _But,"_ she smirked, retrieving the red tie next, "You lack patience and discipline."

Jon didn't agree with her determination, yet he had zero incentive to argue in his own defense as she fastened his right wrist into place. He wriggled his hands to test the strength of either binding, finding them impressive in their restriction. At once, his entire body began to itch. Jon squirmed in his seat.

"Keep your legs open," she warned, looking rather delighted as he struggled.

To better obey, Jon tucked his feet behind the chair's metal legs, forcing them open for her.

Daenerys ran the tips of her fingers over his forearm, indenting his skin with her nails as she stepped behind him. A hand slid over his shoulder and down his chest, his heart hammering under his ribs. He closed his eyes. She leaned in close enough that her breath tickled his ear, her voice steady as she spoke. 

"Define patience."

His eyes snapped open. Somewhere in his mind, the definition was there, he knew, but for some reason, he couldn't speak.

When she pressed her hand to his heart, it began beating faster. The syrupy scent of her perfume settled in his lungs and left him dizzy. Her hand began to move south. Jon looked down to watch polished nails fan across his skin. He shivered.

"Patience is," he began, breath already catching in his throat as a palm slid over his abdomen. "Waiting," he gasped, "F-for something you really want..."

The moment the words left his lips he knew they were wrong. But it was the best he could do with her hand so close to his cock.

The tip of her nose tickled his ear. "Incorrect."

He winced as she pulled her hand away, flooding with instant disappointment.

Stepping out from behind the chair, Jon's eyes locked on her boots as she walked toward her desk, tearing the top sheet from her notebook.

She held the paper up in front of her body as she approached. Once near enough, he could make out the word _patience_ at the top, as beautifully embellished as calligraphy.

"You're going to read this aloud so that I know you understand."

Jon swallowed, hesitating as her eyes drifted downward, settling between his open legs.

"Begin."

"Patience," he read, "The ability to tolerate discomfort without complaint, or, to suppress irritation when confronted with delay."

Her tongue flitted over her top lip. "Good," she said, eyes sweeping up from his groin to meet his gaze. "Do you remember the terms you agreed to, following your misuse of company property, Jon?"

Heat pooled in his cheeks. He shifted in his seat, the leather pulling at his bare skin. "To do as you say."

"Correct," she said, stepping forward. She bent to set the sheet of paper on the table beside him, close enough that he could smell the fragrance on her neck.

"A sigh expresses irritation. If you sigh again, you will be punished."

His cock stirred at the threat.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

Daenerys turned and walked back to her desk. Jon watched as she began to straighten her paperwork and gather her things. The sight of it tied a knot in his stomach tighter than the ones at either wrist.

"Um..."

She stopped and turned her head. "Yes, Jon?"

"Are you going somewhere?"

"A meeting."

Furrowing his brow in irritation, he wrestled with the ties again, certain now he wouldn't be able to get out of them without assistance. "And you're just going to leave me here like this?"

There was no trace of amusement on her face as she turned. In just a few swift steps, she had crossed the distance between them. With her thumb and forefinger, she tilted his chin upward so that he met her eyes.

"Did we not _just_ discuss the terms of our arrangement, Jon?"

Though domineering in both tone and demeanor, there was a softness there in her eyes that stripped him of any conviction adverse to her desires—including, _apparently_ , that of his own autonomy. And so, all he mustered then was a weak nod.

"You will stay put." Her red lips quivered—hungry, perhaps, for his total submission.

And she could have it.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

Jon watched her boots as she padded across the carpet to the door. She didn't spare him even a glance as she hit the light switch on her way out, keys jingling as the lock twisted shut.

The click of her heels echoed throughout the empty hallway until the noise disappeared altogether.

Jon was alone.

And _gods_ , his body itched. Everywhere. _And_ he was cold—never more aware of his nakedness and the vulnerability that came along with it. For the first few minutes after being left alone, he had to talk himself out of bending down and gnawing his way through his silk tie.

It wasn't until he thought about her—elsewhere in the building—that he finally dissuaded himself from escaping. He closed his eyes, listening to each minute tick by as he replayed every torturous moment leading up to her departure—the way her eyes bore so far into him it felt like a physical touch in itself.

Wherever she was now, she was thinking of him, too.

Daenerys had something in mind, he knew—and part of her plan was making him wait for her like a toy in her chest, whose only purpose was to be played with when she desired.

The consideration only carried him ten minutes further forward in time. For lack of anything better to do, he watched the second hand slowly tease each number on the clock. He let go of a heavy sigh—certain that had she been there to hear it, his ass would've been slapped raw.

_Maybe that's what she has in mind_ , he mused, hands fidgeting.

Jon was running out of ways to pass the time. Against his better judgment, his eyes kept flitting back to the clock. He knew how many minutes had passed, but he began to wonder what that was in seconds.

It'd been about twenty-five minutes since she'd left him. _Sixty times twenty-five_ , he pondered, though it'd been a while since he'd indulged in mental math of that caliber, so he broke it into pieces. _Hmm,_ he thought _. Sixty times ten is six-hundred, and if I double that-_

His phone buzzed in the middle of his multiplication. _Fuck_ , he thought, squirming again. _What if that's important?_

Realizing he was helpless, he let it go and returned to calculating in his mind. _Twelve-hundred_ , he continued, _plus another three_. About fifteen-hundred seconds had passed since she left.

He began to chuckle, then, feeling certain that Daenerys would be delighted to know he was driven to such agonizing levels of boredom.

For the next several minutes, Jon kept his eyes closed and daydreamed about what might happen when she walked through the door.

_"You're a very fortunate young man, Jon."_

Yes, I am _, he thought, gripping the armrests as he sat bound and naked in Daenerys Targaryen's office as she encircled him._

_"Fortunate to have a superior so generous as I am..."_

_His eyes followed her as she stepped out from behind his chair to look squarely into his eyes._

_"A superior so eager to provide not just her_ verbal _counsel," she paused to swallow, "But more... direct guidance."_

_She stepped between his legs, knocking against his knees to open them. Her eyes were peeled on his cock as she lifted a hand to reach for it..._

The faint click of heels in the distance brought him plummeting back to reality—a reality that, now, resembled his fantasies so much he had trouble telling the two apart.

It was a good problem to have, though.

A wave of nervous energy washed over him in an instant, and he began to fidget again, so much that his hands flushed red as he struggled against his bindings.

Just outside the door, the clicking stopped, replaced by the sound of jingling keys. Jon braced himself as the lock twisted open—feeling rather like a deer caught in headlights as she entered the office, luckily shutting and locking the door behind her before switching on the lights. Jon clenched his eyes shut, wishing his hands were free to physically shield them from the brightness.

He could hear her settling in at her desk—her laptop whirring to life, followed by a few swift keystrokes. Jon peeled his eyes open one after the other, only to see that all of her focus was on the work in front of her. She ignored him as if he were invisible.

Making sure not to sigh or clear his throat—he simply waited. _Patiently_.

Without so much as sparing him a glance, Daenerys continued typing, parting her lips to remind him, "I told you to keep your legs open."

He had the sudden urge to laugh. But he didn't. Instead, he pried his legs open because that's what she wanted.

And when, after a moment, she finally lent him her attention—her eyes swept up from his feet—every inch of his body there for her consumption, visual or otherwise. Between her command and the look in her eye—he felt a rush of blood not just in his burning cheeks, but straight to his cock as it jerked.

"Though not entirely of your _own_ accord, you've shown great patience nonetheless," she began, "A desirable trait that should be rewarded." She tilted her head, resting her chin on her fingers. "Wouldn't you agree, Jon?"

He swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

After a sigh, she stood—taking deliberately slow steps toward him.

Once she reached him, she bent to loosen the knot at his left wrist. "You must be feeling quite frustrated by now, Jon."

Aside from his eyes following her hands, Jon didn't move as she unfastened the second binding.

"From here, you have two options," Daenerys began, waiting until he met her eyes again before brushing a thumb over his lips. She took slow, backward steps until she struck the edge of her desk, folding her arms and leaning against it. "Either you bring yourself to climax for my amusement..."

Again, her gaze swept over him—and he might've enjoyed it had he been able to distinguish anticipation from agony anymore. And though he knew he'd probably pick the option she'd already given, he had to know the second.

"...Or?"

" _Or_ ," she mimicked, tugging up her skirt enough to expose her garters, "You get on your knees for me."

She snapped one open, her stocking drooping without the added support. The other stocking, too, slid slightly down her thigh as the second garter popped open.

Her hands disappeared beneath her skirt to retrieve her panties. She pulled them down over her thighs and let them fall to the ground, lifting either boot to step out of them entirely.

Jon's eyes, too, dropped to the floor. The gusset was darker than the rest of the fabric—it was wet. His mouth watered. He wanted to taste it.

That was all the consideration he needed. Jon wriggled his arms free and dropped to his knees, the rough carpet scraping his skin. He bent over, crawling on his hands toward her, salivating like a dog promised a treat. And like her little pet, she stroked his hair once he'd reached her legs, tucking his curls behind his ears—the ones that were still long enough, anyway. He settled in on his knees before her.

When he made an attempt to lift her skirt, she physically stopped him, batting a hand away.

"No hands," she instructed. "Hold them behind your back."

Jon shifted to find better balance, obediently locking his forearms in place behind his body. His gaze kept flitting between her eyes and the hem of her skirt, excited for his first proper glimpse beneath it.

"Eager, aren't you?"

He nodded. "Very much, Miss Targaryen."

Through a curtain of dark lashes, she held his gaze from above, letting another drawn-out moment pass before finally dragging the stiff fabric up over the tops of her thighs, bunching it just below her navel to reveal the black lace belt from which her garters freely dangled.

Jon finally broke eye contact to study what he could of her anatomy with her thighs pressed together. She kept a light dusting of silver hair on her mound, though the skin around her vulva was smooth and bare. Already, her labia were slick and swollen.

He licked his lips.

"Get to work, Jon."

In an instant, Jon leaned forward to kiss and nip at her thighs, deliberately dipping his nose into the crease of her vulva as he switched between them. Though he'd already earned himself a satisfied groan, Daenerys slipped her fingers into his hair, guiding his head exactly where she needed it.

Desiring at least _some_ sense of agency, even while on his knees, Jon gave her nothing but light kisses, collecting her arousal on his lips. Mouth hanging uncharacteristically agape, Daenerys watched the spectacle from above. When their eyes met, he ran his tongue all along the outside of his mouth to taste her, afraid to let any of his reward go to waste, holding eye contact all the while.

"More," she commanded through gritted teeth.

Though he liked teasing her, he knew it just wasn't up to him to call the shots. Without the use of his hands, Jon nudged her thighs open with his face—his nose and cheeks almost instantly saturated, tongue eagerly wriggling between her lower lips.

Her body jerked in surprise when something buzzed on her desk. Jon kept on licking as his eyes followed her hand, grabbing her phone to check the screen.

" _Damn it_ ," she quietly cursed before swiping to answer. "This is Daenerys."

It was a male voice, but whatever he was saying, Jon couldn't hear. Reluctantly, he pulled away from his prize to let her talk.

"Yes. I sent it a few minutes ago," she said, her tone clearly annoyed.

Daenerys locked eyes with Jon as her free hand traveled over her belly. Using her fingers, she spread herself open—giving Jon the most incredible view of her fleshy, pink inner labia. His mouth flooded at once with saliva, but he wasn't sure whether or not he should taste them like he wanted to, at least, not until he finally looked up at her face.

She mouthed the words ' _don't stop_ '.

He leaned forward, taking her labia between his lips and gently sucked, massaging the soft skin with his tongue. She let out a sigh so heavy her breath felt like a gust of wind over his face.

"And you're sure the file wasn't attached?" she asked, keeping eye contact as she pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder, freeing up both hands. " _Hmm_. I must've been distracted."

Gripping his head with her hands, she held it in place and began to rock her hips against him.

"It's no problem at all, really," she insisted. "Just let me finish up a quick task and I'll send it right over."

Her fingernails dug into his scalp, grinding his face so hard that she crushed his nose. "Sure thing," she continued, her voice breathless but impressively steady as Jon worked her over with his tongue. "See you."

When the call officially ended, the phone slipped from her shoulder, bouncing off the edge of her desk before hitting the floor with a thud. Daenerys paid it no mind, instead, holding tightly onto Jon's head as she rode it, barely giving him the chance to breathe.

He didn't even care.

Nor did he care about his aching knees, his cold skin, or how uncomfortably wet his face had become, from nose to cheeks to chin.

Daenerys slumped onto the desk, her grip loosening as she began to quiver. Jon kept his lips latched onto hers, even using his feet to lift himself up by a few inches to better reach. He slowed the pace of his tongue to match the final waves of her climax.

When he finally let go of her, they gasped for air together. Jon stayed on his knees and kept his hands tucked behind his back as she recovered, simply admiring the sight in the meantime.

Lifting herself up from the desk by her elbows, Daenerys composed herself as best she could, closing her legs and pulling her skirt down. Jon frowned. He would've been happy to stare at that cunt all day.

Peering down at him, she ran a thumb over his still-wet mouth before penetrating his lips. She made him suck her thumb clean. It was a job he took very seriously, grateful to savor that final taste of her.

Daenerys lifted a second hand then, holding both out in offering. Jon grabbed onto them, letting her help him to his feet. The sensation of pins and needles broke out all over his legs. He held one leg up after the other, shaking them out to help stimulate blood flow.

"Get dressed," she instructed before moving behind her desk and taking a seat. Again, her laptop whirred to life.

As discreetly as he could, Jon watched her work as he pulled on his boxer-briefs and slacks. His eyes fell on her hand as it dragged the wireless mouse across its pad. The way her finger stroked the scroll wheel seemed awful suggestive. He began to wonder how she moved her fingers when she touched herself.

It was then he realized Daenerys had been watching him, too.

He quickly looked away.

Rising from her seat again, Daenerys approached Jon, grabbing his shirt from her desk. Stepping behind him, she held it open as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. Gently, she lifted it up over his shoulders, smoothing her hand over the fabric until, at once, she froze.

"What's this?" she asked.

"What?"

"It looks like a lipstick stain," she said, pointing to a spot on his shoulder.

Jon tucked in his chin, extending his arm as he tried to inspect it.

"You told me you didn't have a girlfriend."

She looked genuinely upset.

"That's because I _don't_ have one," he assured her. And when he saw the shade of the stain, he began to laugh.

"Is something funny?"

"Aye," he smirked. "It's at least a little funny that you can't recognize the shade you wear every day."

She looked almost appalled at the suggestion. "How on earth would my lipstick get on your shirt?"

Jon bit his lip, turning to face her as he buttoned up. He remembered it, clear as day. "It happened when I was bent over your desk."

Her brow furrowed in confusion.

He cleared his throat and tried again. "After I read the dress code..."

"...oh."

Suddenly, she looked troubled. "You don't launder your clothes?"

Jon let out a nervous laugh. "It's a white shirt," he pointed out. "Red isn't the easiest color to wash out. And anyway, I had no idea the stain was even there."

Finding no humor in it, herself, she frowned. "How many times have you worn this shirt since?"

"I don't know," he admitted.

Her eyes fell closed, nostrils flaring with a heavy exhalation.

Jon frowned, too, his eyes following her as she bent to collect her handbag and briefcase from the floor beside her desk.

"I won't wear it again," he promised.

"Good," she said, though her tone was distracted as she rummaged through her bag to retrieve her keys.

Daenerys spared him one last glance before walking to the door. "Tuck your shirt in," she ordered. "And lock the door on your way out."

He nodded. "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

Without another word, she exited the office, leaving him alone again. Jon tucked his shirt into his pants, smoothing out any wrinkles with his hands. It probably didn't matter, he knew—at almost six-thirty, now, the likelihood he'd run into anyone else on the way to his car was pretty slim.

Deciding it best to give her a reasonable head start, he lingered behind in wait.

Jon remembered then that he'd gotten a message while he was... _confined_. He pulled his phone from his pocket to check it.

It was an email notification. He actually laughed when he saw who it was from, and when.

_Jon,_

_Assuming you're not too tied up, I'd like to arrange a meeting to discuss further opportunities for overtime outside the office._

_Best,_

_Daenerys Targaryen_

_Chief Administrative Officer_

. . .

The first few days were relatively easy. _She's just busy with work_ , Jon had assured himself. But the assurances didn't hold up when, by the end of the week, she started going home early. It was unusual.

When Thursday rolled around, Jon started to feel his desperation grow—especially since he'd replied to her email three times already. And that was him showing great restraint.

  
She never wrote back.

He'd spent a fair amount of time lurking around the printer and copy machine—his dress pants getting progressively tighter by the day. And when that bait didn't work, he wore a wrinkled shirt. And when that didn't work either, he untucked it.

Still, nothing.

Friday, Jon came into work wearing a tight collarless shirt with a small embroidered logo on his left chest. Otherwise known as ' _prohibited_ '. 

From his desk, he watched Jorah Mormont leave at the end of the day, trying his best to look busy as he passed. When the elevator doors closed, Jon leapt up and scrambled into the break room. He rifled through the cupboard in search of the right mug, dropping a spoonful of sugar inside before filling it with hot coffee and giving it a stir.

As quickly and carefully as he could, Jon walked it to her office, lingering in the doorway until she noticed him.

There was a scatter of paperwork all over her desk. Without looking up, she greeted, "What is it, Jon?"

"I thought you might like a coffee with sugar?" He stepped inside and placed the mug on the desk near her hand, twisting it so that the words—' _I'm the Boss_ '—would face her.

Brushing his hair over his ears, Jon bit his lip, feeling shy as he bent over and placed his palms flat on her desk, arching his back in a way he hoped might tempt her. He wondered whether he looked as silly as he felt. Or as desperate. The chances were good.

"Thank you, Jon," she said, without so much as sparing him a look as she sifted through her files.

He exhaled slowly—until he realized that he might as well just sigh.

And so he did. Either she didn't notice or she didn't care.

Defeated, Jon walked to the door, then, pausing for one last-ditch effort. He turned to Daenerys and said, "I'm going to go home, now. If you need anything, though, I could come back later?"

"That won't be necessary," she replied, offering nothing more than a fleeting glance. "Goodnight, Jon."

. . .

Somehow, Jon had endured another full week of neglect and unanswered emails. Daenerys treated him like a regular old employee, now. After a while, he began to wonder if that was all he was.

By Friday, he had given up his schemes altogether and returned to his usual business clothing. He'd even gone back to the barber for a trim so that his hair _did not cover or extend beyond the ear_. After all—if doing everything wrong hadn't worked anyway, he might as well do it right.

Like everyone else, Jon stopped working at a quarter-to-five. He gathered in the aisle near the elevator to bullshit with his co-workers as they waited for at least a few more minutes to pass before they could bounce without guilt.

Feeling impatient, he pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time, noticing, instead, a small envelope—indicating he'd had an unread email. Jon tried his best not to get his hopes up as he swiped to unlock his phone and check it.

_Jon,_

_Report to my office at once._

_Daenerys Targaryen_

_Chief Administrative Officer_

He closed his eyes and exhaled, pressing his phone to his chest and mouthing, ' _Finally_ '.

Immediately, he turned and headed down the hallway toward her office, abandoning his quest to leave work early with the others.

"Where you off too, Snow?" asked Grenn.

"The toilet," he lied.

If anything else had been said to him, then, he didn't know. All he could hear was the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears as he continued onward.

He stopped in front of the doorway, almost startled to see Daenerys standing beside her desk, already awaiting him with hands folded behind her back.

"Come inside, Jon."

After taking a deep breath, Jon stepped into her office, shutting the door behind him with an unsteady hand.

He turned to face her, mussing his hair just for something to do with his hands. Her violet eyes were intent on his body, full of predation as they swept over him.

"Lock the door."

The darkness of her tone made him tremble as he twisted the lock shut. She kept her eyes on him as he bridged the gap between them with a few slow steps.

"May I touch you, Jon?"

He swallowed, though his throat still felt dry as he spoke, "You don't need to ask."

"I need you to say it," she urged. "Yes or no."

"Yes, Miss Targaryen."

" _Good_ ," she exhaled—the mint on her breath cool against his lips.

Daenerys stood in front of him, each of her motions as stiff as her suit as she began. She started by loosening and unknotting his necktie before slowly plucking open each button down the front of his shirt.

For Jon, this new sensation was both strange and exhilarating, since he was usually ordered to undress as she watched—or, in some cases, paid him no mind at all as he did it.

After she rolled his tie, she stepped around him, helping him shrug the shirt from his shoulders. As per usual, she took her time meticulously folding the garment and setting it on her desk.

Soon she was back in front of him, running both hands over his chest until she reached his waistband, from which she untucked his undershirt and dragged it over his head. Jon waited patiently as it, too, was folded and set aside, the electricity of her touch lingering.

He kept his eyes on her lips, which parted as she grabbed hold of his belt buckle, tugging the strap loose and gently pulling it through the loops. She wrapped it around her hand like a bandage. When she went to set it aside, she paused. Instead, tucking his tie into her pocket.

"Take off your shoes."

As soon as he stepped out of them, she nudged them aside with her foot, planting two leather boots on either side of his feet. Jon straightened his spine as violet eyes swept over his bare chest. She pressed a hand to his heart, leaving it there as she sighed. Had she not looked so dismayed, he might've dared to tease her for it.

It was no sigh of impatience, though. The furrow of her brow belied her usual nonchalance. Something was bothering her. But before Jon could decode the expression, her palm drifted down and over his abdomen. Part of him wanted to ask her to pause there. Beg her to tell him what's wrong. He'd even listen gladly if all Daenerys needed to do was gripe about work. He didn't care _what_ she had to give, he just wanted more of it.

Jon looked down just as she reached his navel, turning her hand upside down before grazing the front of his pants. His heart sped at the touch, each breath quicker and shallower than the last. He wanted to sigh to make up for his sudden lack of oxygen but thought better of it—making sure each exhalation was deliberate, careful, _slow_. For her touch, he had an endless well of patience.

An eager thumb and forefinger popped open his pants, underlining that the opportunity for inquiry had since passed. Perhaps the best he could do was distract her from her thoughts, anyway.

His zipper came down next. The crease between her brow smoothed as she bent, lowering her body right along with his pants until she was squatting before him, balancing perfectly on her boots. Daenerys didn't look up at him, her eyes fixed, instead, on the obtrusive tent in his boxer briefs. Her fingers slipped into his waistband.

She dragged his underwear down his thighs, tongue flitting out to lick her lips as his cock sprung free. Just inches away from it, her wet mouth glimmered like a ruby. Perfect as it was, Jon considered that it might just look better puffed up, that he might prefer her lipstick were it blotched and faded around the rim of her mouth and along his shaft, instead.

Surprised he'd even had enough blood left in his head, Jon's face flushed hot as she visually examined him—fantasies swirling innumerably in his mind. He wondered what she might be thinking, what she had planned for him.

"Lift your feet."

Jon complied, lifting one foot after the other so she could collect the last of his clothing, save for his socks. Much too soon, she began to rise, eyes dragging again over his body as she lifted herself back up to her feet. He put his hands behind his back, patiently waiting as she folded both pieces and added them to his stack of clothes.

Daenerys walked behind her desk and took a seat. Jon's stomach sank when she opened her laptop, expecting that her plans for him likely involved standing naked for an indeterminate amount of time. _Again_. And again, he fought the urge to sigh.

After a few clicks of her mouse, he heard the whir of the printer just outside the office. She rose from her seat and strode toward the door.

"Don't move," she ordered simply before swinging it open and walking out.

And leaving the door ajar.

Jon's body surged with hot flashes and chills both at once—gripped by the sudden icy panic of possible discovery and burning with the heat of embarrassment. Even had she _not_ commanded his stillness, he was arrested with fear.

Just seconds later she returned, shutting and locking the door behind her. And suddenly, Jon could move again—he folded his arms over his chest and scowled. Daenerys placed a document upon her desk—the print too small for Jon to make out.

"There's a letter I'd like you to read for me," she explained.

It wasn't a task he was excited to perform with sudden jitters. But Daenerys paid his unease no mind as she stepped behind him.

"First, print your name on the line toward the top of the page."

Jon swallowed before stepping forward. He grabbed the only available object upon her desk that he could write with—a red marker. With a shaky hand, he uncapped it and pushed the tip to the paper, spelling out his name in all caps— _JON SNOW_.

"Good," she breathed. "Now bend over the desk. Forearms flat against the wood."

Jon placed two unsteady palms on either side of the document, thankful for something to help physically ground him, the familiarity of the act manifesting a phantom stinging in his backside.

"Read it," she instructed. "Aloud."

He took a deep breath.

"I, Jon Snow," he read his name, "Have been the vi-"

Abruptly, he stopped. He couldn't stomach even looking at the word he was meant to read, at least not so close to his own name. It wasn't right.

"Is something wrong, Jon?"

He frowned. "I don't want to read this."

"I'd rather not punish you, Jon. Just read it."

"No," he outright refused. Again, he grabbed the marker, slashing a defiant red line through the word ' _victim_ ' and scribbling in a replacement word above it.

Daenerys sighed. "Again," she ordered. "From the top."

"I, Jon Snow, have been the _recipient_ ," he'd written, though the more appropriate word would've been _beneficiary—_ "Of inappropriate sexual conduct by my superior, Daenerys Targaryen."

Even though he'd adjusted the word-choice to be more reflective of his perceived reality, it did little to assuage the dread that coiled all through his stomach.

"Keep going."

Jon swallowed the lump in his throat before he continued. "The misconduct began shortly after Miss Targaryen's promotion, and has escalated both in severity and scope," he read, "Starting with an arrangement which she both initiated and exploited under threat of my dismissal."

He stopped again to glower at the page. While he supposed it was _technically_ truthful, he never felt any true threat to his position.

"Under this arrangement," he reluctantly continued, "I was inappropriately touched and coerced into humiliating sexual acts—including forced masturbation and nudity, as well as disciplinary spanking."

Her hand brushed softly up the back of his thigh, momentarily distracting him. He took a few seconds to regather his wits before continuing.

"I was required to perform," he paused to lick his lips, "Oral sex on Ms. Targaryen, as well as..."

Again, he paused, this time to squint at the words that followed. _What?_ he wondered. _This can't be right_.

"Continue, Jon."

"But-"

" _Continue_."

Sucking in a sharp breath, he followed her order. "As well as receiving manual erotic stimulation of..."

The same breath caught in his throat as he felt something slip between his legs—her soft, warm skin brushing against his thighs. "My genitals..." he gasped, trying his best to keep reading, to maintain his composure—but the shock of sudden fingertips brushing his frenulum made his cock bounce, striking her hand as she gently caressed his full length.

She paused when she reached the base, hinting that she wanted him to continue.

"And..." he gasped again when he felt all five fingertips sweep over his testicles. " _And_ ," he attempted again, struggling to focus on the words, on anything but her soft touches. "Um..."

"And?" she urged.

Jon blew out a shaky breath as her fingers began to brush backward, body humming with both ecstasy and apprehension knowing what would soon follow. Despite opening his mouth, he struggled to speak the next few words aloud, the embarrassment of it burning what felt like his entire face. "And even my _anus_ ," he finally said, the words too shy and quiet, he feared Daenerys would make him repeat them.

Instead, he felt the feather-light glide of her fingertips backward, his knees weak and trembling as they brushed over his perineum, sweeping softly over the small ring of muscles between his cheeks as it clenched. Jon dug his nails into the wood to steady his hands, unsure just what to make of the forbidden touch as he whimpered.

"Keep going."

"Until," his voice cracked when he spoke. He cleared his throat and tried once more. "Until my climax was reached-" he read, squinting again to be sure, though the words weren't right. "-via Miss Targaryen's assistance?"

He hadn't _meant_ it to come out as a question, the sudden use of uptalk an automatic and involuntary response, thanks to his confusion. The rest was true, but _that—_ that had never once happened, despite how much he had wished...

"Um," he hesitated again, the soft pinches of his bottom utterly distracting. "These demeaning acts have caused me distress both in and outside of work." Jon stopped to glare at the awful words that stared up at him. Daenerys, too, abruptly stopped her fondling of his bare backside.

"Continue," she ordered.

"Leaving me in a constant state of uncertainty about my job security and professional future within the company." The words felt sour on his tongue as he finished the letter, and he hated every last one.

"Acceptable job," she said. "But your confidence could use a little work."

"It isn't true," he argued. "I don't feel that way."

For a long and torturous moment, Daenerys said nothing. Behind him, he could hear the intake of breath.

"Perhaps we should correct whatever points you take issue with before you sign it."

"There's no _way_ I'm signing this," he protested, shaking his head.

"You will," she insisted.

"I _won't_ ," he refused. "Punish me all you like."

Jon closed his eyes and balled his fists, awaiting a slap on the ass.

It never came.

Instead, she leaned over him, her body warm against his side and upper arm, the stiff fabric of her suit coat abrasive against his bare skin.

"Point to the part you feel needs correction, please."

He slid the arm she wasn't touching over the letter, pointing to the last paragraph.

"All of this can go," he spat. If he felt any distress as a result of their _arrangement_ , it was only on the nights he wasn't invited into her office. If he felt any uncertainty, it was only about how much she returned the feelings he had harbored for her—of which there were many. Perhaps more than there should be.

If only he were brave enough to say any of it aloud. Instead, he just kept glowering at the lies printed on the page, the ones she expected him to sign his name to. He almost wanted to laugh, knowing there wouldn't be a snowball's chance in all seven hells.

"Anything else?"

" _This_ ," he sneered, sliding his index finger to the word ' _climax_ '—otherwise known as the very thing he was more or less forbidden to do, _especially_ by her hand.

"I see," she said and clicked her tongue. "I could edit the error and print a new copy."

Jon's heart sank, his balls heavy and aching, now. Just when he had thought that she might -

"But that sounds _awful_ wasteful," she concluded, stopping his thought in its tracks. She moved away from him, cool air erasing the warm spot she'd left behind on his skin. "Stand up, Jon."

Carefully, he withdrew his forearms from the desk, feeling flooding back into his limbs as he straightened his spine and stood straight.

Daenerys stepped out from behind him and headed straight for her handbag, sat on the floor next to her desk. She bent to retrieve something inside it.

"Perhaps there's another way we could rectify this error?"

Jon kept his eyes on her hands, noticing that what she held was a small bottle—lubricant, he realized.

" _Yes_ , Miss Targaryen," he breathed, almost panting. _Yes, yes, yes, yes_...

Daenerys returned to her position somewhere behind him, conveniently shielded from his view, leaving his mind no choice but to silently shout and rejoice.

"Grab onto the edge of the desk."

Jon took a step closer to it, never more eager to follow an instruction exactly.

His eyes fell closed as she moved closer, pressing her body against his back. The air stirred as she reached around him, planting her hands on either side of his cock before sweeping upward, small fingers tracing every ridge of his abdomen and pectoral muscles, as thoroughly as if she were his sculptor.

Her nose nudged his shoulder as she mapped his body. She took in his scent and held it in her lungs until it came out, seconds later, in a shuddering exhale. Daenerys let her hands liberally roam his sides, stomach, and chest. In that moment, she felt less like a woman and more like a predatory animal, merely toying with her next meal before moving in for the kill.

Again her hands found his navel, and she followed the trail of hair downward. When her fingertips grazed his pubic hair, he heard a hiss as she sucked air in through clenched teeth. Without any warning, her touch fell away. His eyes snapped open.

After a second or two, he heard the pop of what sounded like a bottle top flipping open. And then a squirt. Followed by the wet sound of what he could only guess were her palms rubbing together.

He let out a gasp of relief when two warm, wet hands gripped his shaft, providing him with several teasing upward strokes, one fist after the other. He might've cursed had his throat not felt too tight to speak.

With her left hand, she jerked him near the base of his cock, running all four fingers over his balls on each pass. And with the right, she teased his head, squeezing it gently between her fingers. Jon leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk harder, almost lamenting. What he wouldn't give to touch her, too...

She chased him with her mouth—not quite kissing the back of his neck, but brushing her lips over his skin and breathing him in. From head to toe, his body thrummed. His temples pounded. And behind him, her every breath came just as quickly as his.

He looked down to see her fingers interlocking before both hands engulfed him almost entirely, her palms pulsing as he moved in and out of them. The pressure steadily built inside of him—the sweet satisfaction of the touch he'd been denied for so long grew overwhelming. And soon, it proved too much to bear at all.

Jon's balance faltered, his thighs striking the desk as his relief came shooting up and out of him, dripping from between her fingers. He grunted as she squeezed out the last of it with a few final strokes.

As he caught his breath, he stole a peek of Daenerys from over his shoulder as she retrieved one of her hands. Her lids were closed as she brought her fingers to her mouth, slipping one between her lips and sucking it dry. Jon's exhale made her eyes snap open, widening when she realized she'd been caught.

Daenerys cleared her throat, managing to wipe any trace of embarrassment from her face.

She smirked, then. "And you thought there'd be no way..."

"What?"

"That you'd sign the letter."

She moved away from him, reappearing at his side with her arms folded, looking awful smug. He furrowed his brow, finally peering down to see the signature line—amongst other areas—saturated with a streak of semen.

Jon flushed.

Had he known _that_ was all she meant, he might not have put up such a fight.

He pushed his body up off of the desk and stood straight. Daenerys stepped toward him, tongue clicking as her eyes fell on the letter.

"You have quite a proclivity for mess-making, don't you, Jon?"

Though he wouldn't have thought it possible, his face felt suddenly hotter. The shame burned his body from the inside out. "Yes, Miss Targaryen," he agreed.

"Would you like me to print a clean copy?"

The question made him wince. "What? _No_ ," he sneered.

"Suit yourself," she said.

Jon stood naked and motionless, watching as she moved behind her desk, dropping the bottle of lubricant into her open handbag. Next, she wiped her hands down with tissue before sanitizing them. She pulled another couple of tissues from the box and offered them to Jon. Looking away, he grabbed them both, using them to wipe some of the stickiness from his spent cock.

She gathered her things and walked to the door, pausing there a moment before turning to face him. Her grave expression was immediately unsettling.

"I have to leave, now," she explained. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling. "I regret that I can't stay any longer."

Jon blinked. "It's okay," he softly said, answering the sudden urge to ask, "Is something wrong, Miss Targaryen?"

Her eyes seemed almost glassy as she looked away from him.

"You can talk to me," he urged.

"Thank you," she said, keeping her eyes on the floor. "That won't be necessary."

He didn't know what to say but, "All right."

She turned the door handle. "Thank you, Jon," she repeated. Finally lifting her eyes to meet his, she drew a long breath before adding, "For everything."

Again, she pressed her lips together. Daenerys opened the door long enough to step through it, shutting it gently behind her.

"You're welcome," Jon whispered to the empty room.

  
The diminuendo of her boots echoed in the hallway until it vanished altogether. The sound—or lack thereof—made him feel sad and lonely.

. . .

When he woke Monday morning, Jon drifted through his apartment like a ghost, feeling light as air on his feet—half-afraid he might just float away. He couldn't wait to get to work and see Daenerys.

After all, he had a long list of misdeeds to confess—that he'd taken home the letter he'd 'signed', that he'd opened his _work-issued_ laptop to use as a stand to hold it up, that the humiliation he felt upon just looking at that set-up made him rock hard. He hadn't even visited his favorite site, xdragon, not once. He didn't need to. Countless times throughout the weekend he'd touched himself just looking at the stained letter, alone, even spilling into his hands once without having been granted Miss Targaryen's express permission.

He deserved to be punished.

Jon pulled into his usual parking spot, the sight of her car a few rows from his enough to quicken his pulse.

He rushed through the door and up the elevator, hitting the button four or five extra times as if it had any effect on how soon the cab could carry him up to her.

When the doors chimed open, his heart skipped a beat. He shook his head.

_No_.

A few co-workers were crowded around a familiar figure—one half their height and wearing an ill-fitting designer suit.

Worry bubbled in his chest as he approached them.

Sam spotted him, excitedly gesturing him over. "Look who's back!"

The familiar face lit up as soon as their eyes met. "Hey, kid!"

Under any other circumstance, Tyrion Lannister would've been a welcome sight. Jon tried his best to wrench his grimace into a smile, but there was only one thing he wanted to know.

If Tyrion was back, then where, exactly, was Daenerys?

"What happened?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Got the old job back," he boasted, lifting his brows. "Good thing, too—never heard a single peep back from another company in all that time, would you believe it?"

"But how?" Jon's brow furrowed, more in offense than confusion. 

"My resume could _probably_ use an update," he admitted. "I never got around to adding the work I did here, which I suppose means there's a decade long gap in my work history."

Jon shook his head, his patience wearing thin. "No, I meant— _how_ did you get your job back _here_?"

Tyrion shrugged. "The position opened up." 

"What happened to Daenerys?"

"Who?"

Jon's stomach dropped.

Theon rolled his eyes and cut in, "The chick who filled in while you were away. Jon had the lamest crush on her, it was _so_ pathetic." He laughed, "Even more pathetic than he _usually_ is, I mean."

_Had_. _Was_. Past-tense. Panic twisted in his gut.

"Give it a rest, Greyjoy," Sam said, giving Jon an apologetic nod.

Tyrion, however, winked at him. "Is that right?"

Jon placed a hand to his stomach, then. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted to vomit.

"Anyway," Theon glared at Jon before turning back to Tyrion, "Like I said—I knew it was all bullshit. I mean, porn is the only way I get through my calls. I've heard fuck-all about it."

"Careful, Greyjoy," Tyrion laughed. "Perhaps that's the sort of thing one should keep from one's supervisor, no? Let's pretend I was never here."

_Gladly_ , Jon thought, frowning as he watched Tyrion walk toward Miss Targaryen's office.

Just as he was about to concede to this new, bleak reality and walk to his desk with his tail between his legs, Jon remembered that he'd seen her car in the parking lot. At once, he turned on his heel and marched away.

"Hey!" Theon shouted after him. "Just where do you think you're going, Snow?"

The elevator doors opened as soon as he hailed it—the cab having sat idle on his floor like a getaway driver just waiting to whisk him away. Jon stepped inside, repeatedly pushing the button to take him two floors down. It was a long-shot, he knew, but Human Resources was where she had come from, where she had worked before.

As soon as the door chimed, Jon rushed out, walking through the row of cubicles as if he already knew the way.

" _Hey!_ "

He recognized the tall, long-haired man shouting after him as the very same interloper who'd made a similar dash through a nearly identical maze of cubicles two floors up, just a few weeks ago.

Jon picked up his pace, jogging through the hall until he reached an open door. The scent of incense, vanilla, and spice wafted into the hallway. Neglecting to knock, he stepped into her office.

Daenerys looked up, so startled she had to give him a double-take.

"Mister Snow," she blurted, pushing against her desk and sliding her chair backward. "What are you doing here?"

He cringed. "I told you not to call me that."

She rose to her feet. He, too, had to give her a double-take. She wore her hair in a low, loose ponytail, a few soft tendrils framing her face. The dress she had on was modest both in color and fit, lilac fabric hanging shapelessly from her body. Rather than boots, she wore a pair of simple black heels. And her lips—her lips were a soft pink.

All this time, he assumed he'd feel relief upon finding her, but he didn't. It felt like looking at an impostor. And the coolness of her formality made everything hurt worse.

"You need to leave," a man's voice boomed from behind him, a hand shoving at his shoulder.

Jon didn't turn. He kept his eyes on Daenerys, whose lip curved into a snarl.

"It's _you_ who needs to leave, Daario."

Casting a brief glance over his shoulder, Jon caught only a glimpse as the man stormed off, leaving them alone.

"Answer me," she demanded.

"You were gone."

"I was demoted," she flatly said. There was no trace of emotion in either her tone or her expression. It was like speaking to a robot.

He lifted a hand to rub his forehead. "Why?"

"That's a long story."

"I've got time."

"No, you don't. It's five after nine," she said, gesturing toward the clock above her desk. "That means you're late." She frowned in disappointment. "You're never late."

He glared, holding her gaze more confidently than he'd ever dared to do before. "Anything is subject to change, apparently," he sneered. "Even things you thought you knew about someone."

Though her eyes gave little away, her lips trembled as if the weight of whatever she wanted to say was too heavy to bear. Her gaze finally fell. "You should get back to work, Jon."

"So that's it, then?" There was a sudden stinging in his eyes. He lowered his voice so it wouldn't crack. "Is this really how it ends?"

As soon as the words left his lips, all of the puzzle pieces clicked into place at once—for her, it already _had_ ended. Their last meeting flashed through his mind—how upset she had seemed, how her parting words sounded so sad, a bit too much like a goodbye.

He wanted to scream and shout. To beg and plead. To punch something so hard it took away the pain he felt inside. He wanted to cry.

Another unwelcome memory slipped into the forefront of his mind—eavesdropping as she spoke with the man she called Daario. Like Jon, Daario had been dismissed and made a fool of upon confronting her. Like Daario, Jon had been just another exploit. His stomach twisted, wondering if she'd already picked out another ' _beneficiary_ ' to replace him—remembering the blue tie she slid into the trashcan as she asked whether or not he could keep a secret.

This moment had already been foreshadowed almost exactly.

"Well, fuck _me_ ," he spat. "And my tie? Is that in the dumpster, too?"

If he had stayed in her office a moment longer, he might've suffocated on the stench of her perfume alone, the scent he used to love smelled suddenly foul—sickly-sweet and thick as smoke. He couldn't get away from it soon enough.

Lumbering into the hallway, he made his way back to the elevator, hoping it had waited for him again, ready to aid his escape.

Through the chorus of bells that rang in his ears, he heard her say his name. But even as she muttered, "I'm sorry," he refused to look back.

The last thing he saw before the elevator doors closed in front of him was his predecessor, Daario, arms folded and glaring. Jon's finger hovered briefly over the button for his floor before jumping down last-minute to select the ground floor instead.

Jon jogged through the empty lobby toward the back door, swinging it open and rushing into the area behind the building. He ran up to the dumpster, almost losing steam once he caught wind of its rank smell.

But he just had to know.

If she had thrown his tie away just before the weekend, it should still be in there, somewhere. They wouldn't pick up the trash for another two days.

Jon reached up and grabbed the edge of the dumpster and pulled himself up to climb inside. Tossing the empty boxes aside, he ripped open bag after bag, mostly finding the remnants of shredded documents and crumpled papers.

He quickly ran out of things to rifle through. The only red he had spotted at all were a few discarded markers and pens.

Unsure whether his findings—or lack thereof—should make him feel better or worse, Jon only sighed, lifting himself over the edge and falling the short distance until his feet collided with the pavement.

Daenerys was right about one thing—he was never late for work. Despite that, he was in no rush to return to his desk, so he took it slow on the way back. Besides, with Tyrion as his supervisor, now, punishment wasn't likely anyway.

Unfortunately, Jon had caught the attention of a few co-workers when he finally made his way through the cubicles toward his desk.

Covering his phone's receiver, Sam asked, "You okay, Jon?"

Looking forward, he just nodded. He wasn't okay, but it didn't matter. It's not like he could explain why, anyway.

"You look like shit, Snow," Theon jeered as Jon passed. "Smell like it, too."

_Apropos_ , he thought, finally making it to his desk and slumping into his seat. When he took stock of his surroundings, he spotted the very thing he'd been searching for—there, neatly rolled beside his keyboard sat his red silk tie.

Jon glared at it.

Picking up the trash can from underneath his desk, he held it to the edge and slid the necktie across the wood, watching it unravel as it fell inside.

It was then he noticed a crumpled paper—one he couldn't remember throwing away. He reached inside to grab it, smoothing it over the flat surface of his desk.

The words were hand-written in cursive, each letter elegant, each loop embellished. The beautiful style clashed with such ugly words:

_I made a terrible mistake with you._

_I don't know why I'm like this._

_I'm sorry._

. . .

Tyrion Lannister had caught wind of Jon's recent eagerness to cash in on overtime—learning that he'd helped Miss Targaryen put a dent in the work he'd been neglecting prior to his dismissal. Of course, Jon suspected Greyjoy had been the one to mention it to Tyrion at all, probably snickering to himself all the while. Everyone in the office had suspected Jon's true motivation in helping Daenerys, after all.

Perhaps to Theon's chagrin, though, Jon was just as happy to help Tyrion, actually, though his motivations were wildly different now. While he didn't really need the money, what he did need was to keep his mind busy. Work was the only thing that helped him get away from himself.

And so, by the week's end, Jon sat alone at home with just his dog and a box of file folders. At least he finally knew the reason for Tyrion's reluctance to upgrade his technologically obsolete habits. Apparently, he didn't trust the tech, explaining to Jon that, _'You just never know who might be looking'._

Tyrion had been thinking of hackers and data breaches.

Jon had been thinking of Daenerys.

It didn't help, though, that the fucking laptop staring back at him only reminded him of her. As had sitting on his ass in front of his coffee table next to a box he'd brought home from work. He should've been working for _her_ , though there was no denying the sting of latent guilt. He never agreed with Tyrion's dismissal, and he should be thankful to have such a lenient boss, rather than wishing the man was still out of a job.

Jon glanced at his phone, wondering what was stopping him from calling her. At nearly ten o'clock, it was late, sure. But he didn't care. It's not like he had anything to lose now.

He grabbed it, scrolling through his contacts until he landed on her name.

Daenerys Targaryen

"Fuck it," he spat and hit call.

As it rang, he realized he had no plan, here. No idea what to say. He started feeling nervous. He thought about hanging up, until-

"Jon?"

He couldn't speak.

"You okay, kid?"

Tyrion Lannister's voice rang in his ears. _Of course_ , Jon thought, remembering the revelation that Daenerys had inherited Tyrion's work number after taking over his position. And since accepting his old job back, Tyrion had returned to his original office. It made sense they'd give him his original number, too.

"Aye," Jon finally said. "Sorry, I didn't expect to hear your voice, that's all. I dialed the wrong number."

"I see," Tyrion said. "Well, I'll let you go so you can make that call."

The words struck Jon right in the gut—he was incapable of making the right call, actually. He didn't know how to reach Daenerys, short of marching into her office.

"Sounds good. I'll see you Monday."

"Oh, Jon?" Tyrion interrupted. "While I've got you, there's something I wanted to ask."

"Sure."

"Do you still talk to Daenerys?"

His blood ran cold. " _What_? Why-?"

"It's just—I heard what she did, and I thought I should thank her. Problem is, we've never met."

"What she did?"

"Yeah. You know, her resignation."

"Daenerys was demoted."

"Hmm," Tyrion considered. "Not exactly. She spoke out against my dismissal, even presenting proof that there were no grounds for it."

Jon blinked. "She did?"

"Apparently," Tyrion answered. "So if you happen to speak with her-"

"I won't," he interrupted. "We don't talk. She was-" he paused, his throat tightening, reluctant to admit the truth aloud, "She was just my supervisor. And now she isn't."

"Eh, well. It was worth a shot."

"If you wanted to thank her, though, she's the head of Human Resources."

"Good to know," Tyrion said. "Anyway, I won't keep you. Enjoy your night, kid."

The words felt like salt in his wounds.

"You, too," Jon sighed, letting the call end before setting his phone on the coffee table, though what he wanted to do was chuck the damned thing clear across the room.

In front of him, his laptop was still open. Jon minimized his browser and searched through his files for the PDF version of the employee handbook. Hitting CTRL and F to bring up a search box, he typed in the word 'porn'.

No results. _Odd_ , he thought. He recalled his evaluation, then, sitting there sweating across from Daenerys, just waiting for her to bring up his misdeeds, to fire him. What was it she'd said?

_Ah_ , he remembered, and typed in 'adult content'.

No results.

He tried just the word 'adult'—the results yielding nothing in relation to pornography.

Leaning back, Jon closed his eyes. He pictured Daenerys in front of him—his body squirming at the memory of the humiliation, alone. He could even hear her voice, now.

_Jon Snow would never use company property to indulge in illicit material._

His eyes snapped open. He typed 'illicit' into the search bar.

No results.

After striking the backspace key several times, he tried 'explicit' this time.

No results.

_Fuck_ , he thought, wondering how they might describe pornography in legalese. Jon nibbled at his lip, scouring his mind for synonyms. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing in the only other word he could come up with—'erotica'—though he knew it was quite a reach.

No results.

Tyrion was right. Worse, _Theon_ was right.

There _were_ no grounds for dismissal for watching porn at work. It was nowhere in the company handbook. _What a senseless oversight_ , he thought. And Jon couldn't help himself, then. He began to laugh.

As the head of the HR department, it's likely Daenerys had known all along. Jon thought back to the letter she'd had him read aloud, the one that stated he felt uncertain about his job security. How fitting it was that he never actually had. Because his job was never even at stake. 

He wondered, then, whether he was responsible, in some way, for her decision to step down, given all that had transpired between them. All this time, it wasn't Daenerys who had been keeping some secret of his. He had been the one keeping _her_ secret _._

Jon felt a sudden chill—the hairs all along his arms raising. His eyes drifted to his laptop, landing on the small circle above the monitor.

"Are you there?" he asked, looking into the camera like he might look into her eyes, almost waiting for a response that he knew wouldn't come.

Jon sighed. "Of course you're not," he said to the lens. "I just thought I felt-"

He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Only then, out of the corner of his eye, did he realize that he _had_ caught someone's attention.

Ghost's.

" _Nevermind_ ," he muttered, his hope crumbling at once, and all Jon could do was laugh at himself.

He spoke to his laptop anyway. What harm could it do?

"There are so many things I wish I could say to you. So many questions I'd ask, if only you'd give me the chance," he confessed. "But I suppose this will have to do."

He looked down at his hands, picking at his cuticles.

"I keep thinking of that letter. I suspect now that you had actually hoped I'd turn it in. And when I didn't—you chose to punish yourself, instead."

With zero fear of repercussion, now, he let out a heavy sigh. "If only I had known that'd be the last time that we'd-" he paused to let the stinging in his nose subside.

"Sorry," he said after a moment, feeling stupid that he had to fight back tears at all. "More than anything else, I just-" he took another break to swallow the lump in his throat. "I just wanted to know you," he finally admitted.

Jon closed the laptop then, folding his arms on top of it, resting his chin on his wrist. He stared off into the distance, his mind finally going blank for the first time in days.

It almost felt good.

Beside him, his phone buzzed. Startled, he sat up and grabbed it off the table, swiping to unlock it. Notifications this late at night were rarely good news, he knew.

It was a text from an unknown number. His heart sped as he read the words.

Jon practically leapt to his feet, running straight for his door. Unfortunately, the sudden dash also spurred his dog into action, who had already beat him there, expecting his final walk of the night.

Sighing, he reached for Ghost's leash, snapping it onto his collar.

" _Quickly_ , boy," he urged. "I've got somewhere to be."

. . .

Jon crept down the dark street, so slow his car was practically coasting. When he came upon a stop sign, he checked his mirrors to make sure no one was behind him before grabbing his phone from the cupholder.

Though he'd already memorized exactly what it said, just in case, he thought it might be wise to double-check the mysterious text:

284 Dragonstone Drive

His eyes flitted to the number on the nearest house—two-eighty-two. He was close.

Just after he crossed the intersection, he spotted a familiar black BMW parked a few driveways away. Heart rate climbing, Jon let out a shaky breath as he pulled up to the curb and parked in front of the house.

Flipping down his visor, he checked himself out in the mirror—pushing his hair this way and that, unsure which way looked best, if either. He covered his mouth with his palm to check his breath, even though he'd brushed his teeth.

After climbing out of his car, Jon closed the door as quietly as he could and made his way up the stone path. It was a quaint bungalow with a dark brick exterior. Jon took the steps to the open porch, where a pair of potted lemon trees guarded either side of the bright red front door. Right in the center hung a funny little cast-iron door knocker in the shape of a dragon's head. Just as he mustered the courage to reach for it, the door swung open, startling him.

At first, it was her height that surprised him most—she stood a few inches shorter than he had expected. Jon adjusted his line of eyesight for the difference in height, even taking a step backward to take in her full image.

She had on a semi-sheer black robe tied loosely around her waist. Underneath, he could just make out a matching set of black lace underwear. Her legs were completely bare, right down to her feet—just as perfectly manicured as her hands. And her legs... smooth and shapely, and somehow long despite her small stature. What he wouldn't give to have them wrapped around him in any way she pleased.

The most surprising feature, however, was the thick silver mane that poured over her shoulders in waves.

"Your hair is curly," he commented.

_Of all the fucking ways to greet her_ , he scolded himself.

Looking suddenly self-conscious, Daenerys swept it over her shoulder, confessing, "I straighten it for work."

Realizing he should do something more than stare and blink like a buffoon, he quickly assured her, "It's pretty." Because it was.

She just stepped aside, pushing her door open further to let him in. Once he was in her living room, she locked them inside. Jon stuffed his hands into his pockets, unsure what to say or do, now. There was no context for the spontaneous visit—he didn't know whether he should confess or undress.

Daenerys had seemingly shed the strict persona he was used to—or maybe it was just that this was only the second time he'd seen her sans boots and with flesh-colored lips rather than red.

"You shouldn't have come," she said in a low voice. " _No_ ," she immediately corrected, "I shouldn't have invited you." Daenerys folded her arms, lifting a hand to rub her forehead. "I'm sorry."

"There's no place I'd rather be."

Daenerys frowned at that. "Maybe you should just go."

The pain of her rejection surged all throughout his body, especially in his hands. He balled them into fists to deaden the sensation. Jon pushed the words out through the sudden lump in his throat, "If that's what you want, I'll leave."

_Like I could tell you no._

"It isn't what I want," she softly admitted.

Relief washed over him, and he let out a thankful sigh. Though he might be pushing his luck by asking, he had to know. "Why _did_ you invite me?"

She looked away, ashamed. "Because I want to know you, too."

His heart skipped a beat, then. Maybe even two.

"But I don't deserve to," she lamented.

"Who says?"

"I do."

His brow furrowed in defiance. "Shouldn't I get to weigh in on that?" he wondered aloud. "You've punished yourself enough."

She had the gall to laugh. "I know it looks that way to you, Jon, but," she paused to nibble her lip. "Just as much as I wished to help Tyrion, I wanted to snuff those awful rumors about me. Which _aren't_ true, by the way."

"I know they're not true."

"As _if_ I'd sleep with Jorah." She shuddered at the thought. "Anyway. I'll get back there, one day," she promised. "Only next time, I'll make sure I earn my promotion." Daenerys looked deeply into Jon's eyes, then. "And I won't abuse my power once I get there."

Jon could see the tears spring up around her waterline. He wanted nothing more than to kiss them away, but for now, he knew words would be a better way to ease the guilt she so stubbornly clung onto.

As tenderly as he could, he assured her, "You're not a bad person because you discovered we share the same kink."

"It's _how_ I discovered it that's the problem," she admitted shamefully. "Not to mention everything that followed."

Jon shook his head. "It's not a problem. Not for me."

"It should be," she argued. "I can't begin to imagine how humiliated you must've felt."

"I did," he agreed, lifting his eyebrows. "And _I_ can't begin to list what I'd give just to feel it again. _Or_ ," he paused to consider, "Maybe I could, assuming you've got all night to listen?"

He hoped she might laugh. Instead, she scowled. Jon let go of a sigh, then—a very intentional sigh. At this point, a punishment would be more than welcome anyway. "Desperation drives us all to do things we aren't proud of," he countered.

She scoffed.

"Maybe that's spying on a co-worker," he continued, "Which was actually within your right to do, might I add," he reminded, shrugging. "Or maybe, it's rifling through a dumpster..."

"Those are _not_ the same," she insisted, shaking her head and grimacing at herself. "Besides," she paused to swallow, "We can't do this twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week."

Jon waited until she met his eyes to challenge her. "Why not?"

Daenerys quickly looked away, apparently determined to wallow in self-resentment.

"Let me show you how it could be," he begged. "At least give me a chance to do that before you dump me."

"You were never mine to dump, Jon."

"Oh, but I _was_ ," he corrected. "I still am. Do you honestly think I needed some ' _arrangement_ '? I was at your mercy _well_ before that, Daenerys."

She shook her head, almost pleading as she whispered his name. "Jon..."

He took a cautious step toward her.

"Yes, Miss Targaryen?"

Just by the change in her breathing, he could tell that the words had an almost empowering effect on her. Squaring her shoulders, she dropped her arms to her sides. She stood just a little bit straighter.

Finally, she met his eyes, unleashing the full power of her violet gaze.

"Take off your clothes."

The tingle of pure relief washed over him, and Jon let out a shaky breath. " _Yes_ , Miss Targaryen," he repeated, each word overenunciated due to sheer excitement.

Jon set to work immediately as she turned and disappeared down the hallway, shrugging first out of his jacket. As he undressed, he looked around her place. The house seemed more meager in size than he'd expected—though the open-concept made the most of the space, somehow expanding it beyond its means.

He stood by the kitchen island, the light fixture above lending only a dim white glow. Her kitchen was a bit of a mess—a used pot and mixing bowls stacked beside the sink, the counter a scatter of dry ingredients he guessed she had used to make dinner—flour, black pepper, an empty carton of eggs, and a dusty rolling pin. Already, he conspired to clean the mess for her—assuming she let him stay over for the night.

A flash of red in the sink suddenly caught his eye. _It can't be_ , he thought, lifting himself up onto his toes for a better look. There it was, soaking in shallow water—a familiar red mug peeking up through the suds to remind him, ' _I'm the Boss_ '.

The sight of it made his heart skip a beat. He could picture himself in her kitchen at dawn, naked of course, pouring a cup of coffee with sugar to wake her with.

After he was finished removing his clothing, Jon took pride in carefully folding each piece. While he wasn't as good at it as Daenerys, he'd seen her do it enough times that he could sufficiently replicate her efforts, stacking his clothes neatly on her kitchen island in a way he hoped might impress her. After taking off his socks, he rubbed his feet on the rug to dry his nervous sweat before stuffing them inside his shoes by the door.

Again, he looked around, delighted to discern whatever he could about her personality—there was so much about her left to discover. His eyes landed on an antique record player by a window dressed with heavy red curtains, a box of records beside it. He took a few steps closer to examine her collection. While there was a wide range of artists there, electronic and industrial rock seemed to be her preference. _Fitting_ , Jon thought, suddenly wondering whether her personal style was as edgy as her taste in music and whether her love of leather extended beyond her boots.

He turned then, confronted with a glaring answer to his musings. There sat a sleek black leather sofa, and above it—a surrealist painting of what looked to be a biomechanical woman, kneeling with her hands behind her back—a position that, by now, was awful familiar.

Checking the adjacent wall for more artwork, he instead found a few photos of Daenerys with family and friends. There was one face that struck him as familiar. A tall man with long dark hair and a blue tie. His arm was around Daenerys, at what Jon assumed might be a wedding or some sort of similar formal event. He looked a little less like an ex _ploit_ and more like just an _ex_.

Behind him, he heard the sudden patter of bare feet against tile, softening as soon as they reached the rug. Jon remained still, keeping his gaze fixed forward. His eyes caught something flying through the air—an object he recognized immediately as a bottle of lube once it landed with a bounce on the leather sofa.

When Daenerys brushed past him, he caught another flash of red—this time in her hand. And when she turned, she revealed a pair of fresh red lips to match. Unblinking, she held his gaze as she lowered herself onto the leather, letting the silk tie between her fingers unravel to the ground, legs parting to reveal just a hint of her black lace panties.

He recognized the indents in the silk from where she'd knotted it before. It was his tie. He couldn't help but grin, picturing her sneak back through the cubicles after hours to dig it out of his trash can.

"On your knees," she commanded.

_Gladly_.

And Jon complied, falling to the ground as quickly as his body would allow.

"Come," she motioned with her finger.

Jon crawled on his hands and knees toward her, stopping at her feet to await his next instruction. After making a loop with his necktie, Daenerys dropped it over his head so it rested loosely around his neck. She tugged on it, drawing him toward her like one might pull a leashed dog.

"Up," she said, her lip twitching as she settled back into the leather. "On my lap."

Heat bloomed in Jon's cheeks as he made the awkward climb onto the couch. Upon straddling her legs, Daenerys cupped his ass and pulled him closer, helping him find the most sturdy position.

"Arms behind your back," she ordered. "Put your wrists together."

Eagerly, Jon followed her order—tucking his arms behind his body. Daenerys held his gaze as she leaned forward, wrapping the tie around his wrists and securing his hands with a tight knot.

Once he was bound, she reached up to run her hands through his hair, her touch drifting down his neck and chest. She brushed her thumbs over his nipples, his body twisting away from her touch once she'd rubbed them raw. Jon's back arched from the pain, but he didn't dare complain. His body was hers to do with as she pleased.

Luckily for him, though, she returned to exploring him with gentle touches, paying extra attention to his legs, squeezing his calves and thighs. It was his erection that seemed to catch her attention next, her eyes softening with desire as she reached for her lube—the familiar pop of its cap like music to his ears.

Wide-eyed, she slathered her palms, looking rather like an explorer who just unearthed buried treasure as she wrapped her wet hands around him. Jon pushed the air from his lungs to make room for more, repeating the action several times until the dizziness subsided, until his hold on himself was at least half as strong as her fists on his cock.

"You're going to fuck my hands," she said, briefly tonguing the corner of her mouth before continuing, "I want to watch you move."

Jon nodded, both face and cock flushing hotter. "Yes, Miss Targaryen."

As he began to thrust into the tunnel of double-fists, her eyes darted over his body, starting with his legs. She even bent to her right to ogle his ass. Jon tensed his muscles more than was necessary for the movements, the lascivious look in her eye more intoxicating to him than even alcohol. And _gods_ , he needed more of it.

Each time his cock passed over her thumb, he could feel it swirling—her fluttering fingers like an octet of tongues licking his shaft. Daenerys leaned back, sweat beading her brow. She drove her teeth into her bottom lip, staining them red. Her body sank into the leather below, chest heaving like he was fucking more than just her hands.

Jon's eyes dropped to her chest as his movements worked her robe open, revealing a pair of taut, rosy-pink nipples pushing up through the lace of her bra. He let out a pitiful grunt, his body's reaction to the usually off-limits view too powerful for him to stop or control in any meaningful way, though he'd tried his best.

Like a teen-aged boy, he ejaculated right there in her hands, as if her breasts were the first pair he'd ever seen—the shame of it almost too much for him to bear.

Daenerys, too, exerted a stream of erratic breaths, likely trying to make sense of his sudden, humiliating mishap.

" _Jon_ ," she breathlessly warned. "That was awful naughty of you."

All he could do was worry his lip. He had no words to defend himself.

"I'd ask you to look at the mess you've made, but I'm afraid I might get sprayed again."

If his hands had not been tied, he would've used them to hide his face, then. Instead, he clenched his eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Forget patience," she teased, giving his tender, yet still-erect cock a squeeze. "It's your control we'll work on next."

His body jerked from her touch. "Yes, Miss Targaryen," he relented.

"Open your eyes, Jon."

He peeled open one lid after the other—his gaze immediately falling on the white smear across her tits.

"Well?" she asked expectantly. "It's your mess, after all. You should be the one to clean it up."

"But, um _,"_ he stuttered, "My hands are bound."

Daenerys shrugged, finally releasing her hold on his cock to tease her robe open further, perhaps to taunt him. "So?"

When the solution popped into his head, Jon went for it—refusing to give himself enough time to second-guess the decision as he dove straight for her breasts. He licked the sticky white ribbon from beginning to end, collecting his own semen with his tongue—the taste of it bitter and strange. Before he could register that any movement had happened at all, she'd captured his jaw in her hands, squeezing his cheeks and tilting his head up to face her.

The look in her eyes was one of shock and awe. Overcome with what he took to be sudden and intense lust, her mouth opened as she leaned forward, tongue laving his lips before dipping between them. Daenerys grunted into his mouth as she tasted him. It was highly unconventional for a first kiss, he knew, but he'd be lying if ever he dared to claim it wasn't the best he'd had.

She broke from his mouth with a gasp, bringing her fingers to his lips, pushing them inside to make him suck them clean. He caught a glimpse of her eyes rolling back before she leaned in again to taste what remained of his semen from his mouth and tongue, sucking him with an eagerness he'd never seen before—not even in porn. By now, his cock was pulsating with all-new need, more than keen to make up for its faux-pas. Having seen both her breasts and her cunt, now, Jon hoped this marked the last of his unfortunate surprises.

Daenerys pressed her forehead to his, catching her breath a second time. It was then she looked down, noticing he was still at full attention.

"Good," she breathed, running her tongue over faded-scarlet lips. "I want to fuck you."

Jon felt a surge of blood to his groin, cock twitching in anticipation. He wasn't sure he deserved a reward for his sub-par performance, but, who was he to argue? And so, he gave a vigorous nod.

"On your feet," she commanded, giving his ass a few inciting slaps. Daenerys helped him up before turning him around. As she began untying his hands, she instructed him further. "Follow the hallway to the end," she said. "Lie down on the bed and put your knees to your chest."

Jon raised an eyebrow at that. She gave his ass another slap as he started down the hallway.

Inside her bedroom, Jon was greeted by a large mirror above a dresser, reflecting a four-poster bed. He moved closer to it. The image he saw staring back at him was frightening at first—the blush across his cheeks almost as red as his stained mouth—compliments of her lipstick.

The bed was unmade and fitted with crisp black sheets, her blanket pushed to the side. He could imagine her lying there an hour or so ago—laptop on her stomach, listening to him vent from his living room floor.

If it weren't for his exhaustion as he climbed onto her bed, he might've thought it was all a dream. But his skin was still too hot, his cock too sticky. This was real. He was in her bed. And, considering that, he ought to do as he was told.

Jon settled in, letting his head sink into her pillow. His eyes scanned upward, examining the headboard, finding several places to which she could bind him if ever she pleased. From his vantage point, he inspected whatever else he could—a walk-in closet packed with dark clothing, mostly black and red and purple. A pair of familiar knee-high leather boots rested against the open door. Instinctively, Jon licked his lips.

When he heard her approaching from the hallway, he quickly lifted his legs and pulled them to his chest—the position inherently compromising, leaving nothing at all to the imagination, now. Though in fairness, he _had_ confessed he wanted to feel humiliated.

When Daenerys entered the room, she walked right passed him and straight to the vanity beside her dresser. She grabbed a hair clip and stuck it between her lips. Holding his gaze through the mirror, she wound her thick tresses into a messy pile atop her head, pinning it in place. After shrugging out of her robe, she let it fall to the floor before climbing onto the bed—still clad in her lace lingerie.

Somehow, she seemed to disappear altogether, his legs blocking her from his view entirely. Jon let out a surprised yelp when he felt the wet squish of her tongue at the base of his balls. He parted his legs to watch as her mouth ran the full length of his genitals.

It was nothing more than a tease, though, as she repositioned herself onto her knees below him and reached for his cock, pulling it back so it stood up straight.

"Hold it up like this," she ordered.

Jon bit his lip and nodded, pushing down on his erection to achieve the desired result as she lifted herself up onto her feet. With one hand, she pushed his knee to his shoulder, and with the other, she slid her panties to the side. Together, they guided his cock inside as she lowered herself onto him, sitting on his upturned thighs. Her cunt was near-sweltering, the heat of it burning all throughout his body.

She began to thrust her hips—exactly the way he might, had he been the one on top. Instead, he simply laid there and took it, even wrapping his legs around her waist. Something about the angle at which his cock was bent felt both so wrong yet so right.

Using his chest for support, she began riding him with a brazen ferocity, the weight of her small body shaking the bed as she pounded against him, fucking him like an animal. The head of his cock grew tender as she thrashed and bucked, the fit inside of her almost too tight as she pushed down on his cock from the inside.

Dread rose right along with his climax—his efforts to contain it quickly failing, though luckily not as poorly as when he was in her lap.

"Dany," he croaked, tapping her arm in quick succession, like a fighter wishing to yield to his opponent.

She didn't stop. _Shit_.

"May I come?" he begged her permission. " _Please_."

She nodded her approval— _thank the gods_.

"Tell me when you're close."

" _Now_ ," he whined—surprised at the speed with which she jumped off of him the moment he'd unhooked his legs. Not even a full second later, her lips secured around his cock to literally suck the semen straight out of him. His body writhed, the wet sounds of her mouth making his head spin as he relished the audible gulp of each swallow.

When he was finished, she climbed up the bed to lie beside him. The spinning didn't stop until he grabbed onto her body for support, his hands slipping at first on the sweat.

Dany wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead as she cradled him and stroked his hair. The pair stayed exactly like that, marinating in the blissful peace of being wrapped up in one another. It was only when Jon nearly drifted away that he realized he ought to speak.

Only, Dany had beat him to it.

"Stay with me tonight?" she softly begged. "You're in no condition to drive."

Jon couldn't help but grin at that.

Leaning forward, Dany pressed another kiss to his forehead. And then one more between his brows. And another to the tip of his nose before she brushed it with hers. Then she kissed his lips. Jon groaned and pulled her impossibly closer, her kisses so much sweeter than he'd imagined they would be.

" _Yes_ , Miss Targaryen," he whispered against her mouth.

Her violet eyes glistened, softening further when he met her gaze. All at once, every last doubt about whether or not she returned his affection evaporated with just one look. There it was, reflected in her eyes - the depths of it seemingly as boundless as his.

"Dany," she implored. " _Please_ , call me Dany."

Her words were soft as a feather pillow, cushioning him as he sank right into his chosen endearment. From the moment he first laid eyes on her, Jon was always hers to do with as she pleased.

But now he knew for certain that she, too, was _his_.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **You:** "Maybe not very romantic, but blackmail can be kinky."
> 
>  **Me, to myself:** _Challenge accepted._
> 
> So then, how'd I do? ♥
> 
> To everyone else who stopped by - Thanks for reading! ♥
> 
> Moodboard by [aliciutza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciutza) and Artwork by [Dragon_and_Direwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf). Please show these talented gals some love! ♥


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